Chapter 3

Blair POV:

The clinking of silverware stopped.

Grayson's hand jerked violently. Boiling water from the metal teapot splashed onto the white tablecloth. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, grabbed a napkin, and dabbed at his scalded knuckles, his eyes shooting toward me, filled with the shame and fury of being publicly exposed.

"Blair, what kind of question is that? What does my personal life have to do with tonight's team dinner?"

Kloe immediately jumped up, fished an ice cube from her water glass, wrapped it in a napkin, and pressed it against his hand. "Gray, does it hurt?" She leaned half over him, blocking me from his view, and when she turned to look at me, her eyes were already wet. "Blair, why are you doing this? If you have a problem with my design proposal, you could tell me privately. Why do you have to interrogate Gray in front of everyone and ruin the mood?"

Marcus leaned over and lowered his voice. "Cool it, will you? Everyone knows they're practically together. Why do you have to put him on the spot like an HR compliance audit?"

Dave waved a hand at Kloe. "Don't take it to heart. Blair only knows how to be all business. She doesn't get romantic banter. Sit down, let's get some more ice."

Grayson stood up, his face rigid and cold, one hand pressing the ice pack, the other hovering near Kloe's elbow. "We're leaving first. Kloe needs to review for tomorrow's presentation, and my hand needs burn ointment. Marcus, put this on my corporate card."

He tossed his black card onto the table, never once looking at me, and guided Kloe toward the door, leaning down to murmur something that made her raise a hand to wipe her eyes and nod obediently.

For the next forty minutes, no one said a word to me. When the bill came, Marcus split the tip among everyone present except me. I paid for my drink in cash, walked out into the chilly Seattle night, and called a car back to the apartment.

At nine-thirty, the apartment was pitch black. I sat on the couch without even taking off my coat, watching headlights sweep across the ceiling.

At ten-forty, the electronic lock beeped. Grayson stepped into the foyer, tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl. He smelled of rain and a faint trace of lavender perfume—Kloe's signature scent.

He flipped on the overhead light, squinted when he saw me, and frowned. "Are you satisfied now? You humiliated me in front of my entire engineering team. What was that stunt at the dinner table?"

I looked at his right hand. His knuckles were wrapped in a neat white bandage.

"Did you take her home?"

"She was crying!" Grayson strode toward the coffee table. "She was terrified, thinking you hated her, thinking you were trying to spread rumors at a work dinner to force her out! I spent a whole hour comforting her in her apartment lobby!"

"You had to comfort her? What about me? I've lived in this apartment with you for three years, and tonight you told twenty people you were single."

"I never said I was single! I said she was a 'special colleague'! It was a workplace joke! You're acting like a lunatic over a harmless comment!"

"Then tell them tomorrow."

Grayson froze. "What?"

"At the all-hands meeting tomorrow morning, get on stage and tell everyone that you and I have been together for three years, that we live together, and that Kloe is just a coworker."

He let out a bitter, mocking laugh. "Are you insane? Kloe just finished her Q3 presentation and I'm supposed to go announce my private life? Everyone will think I'm targeting her! It'll look like you forced me to publicly humiliate her to satisfy your pathetic jealousy!"

"You'd rather care about her feelings than my dignity."

"I care about professional boundaries!" he roared. "You're irrational, controlling, and paranoid! I will not let your insecurities destroy my career and Kloe's reputation!"

He grabbed a pillow off the couch and slammed the guest bedroom door shut. The sound echoed through the hallway.

I stood in the center of the living room. My hands didn't shake. My eyes didn't tear up.

I walked into the master bedroom, locked the door, and pulled two black rolling suitcases from the top shelf. I packed my winter coats, my designer dresses, my shoes, my work portfolio. I left every piece of jewelry he'd ever given me on the nightstand.

At seven in the morning, laughter drifted from the kitchen.

I unlocked the door and walked down the hallway. The kitchen smelled of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee. Kloe stood at the marble island wearing Grayson's favorite Seattle Mariners baseball jersey from his college days, her hair in a messy bun. Grayson, in sweatpants, was flipping pancakes on the griddle.

Two white plates on the island. Two steaming mugs. No third plate.

"Morning, Blair!" Kloe turned with a spatula in hand. "Gray said you were stressed and in a bad mood last night, so I took the early bus over to make breakfast for everyone! Gray's hand hurts too much to hold the pan, so I'm helping out!"

She giggled and dabbed at a smudge of flour on Grayson's cheek with a paper towel. He didn't pull away. He looked down at her, his eyes soft and indulgent.

"Blair," he said without looking up, "grab the orange juice from the fridge and set the silverware. Kloe's been up since dawn working on this."

I stood barefoot on the hardwood floor, looking at the kitchen I had designed, the griddle I had paid for, the man who was treating me like a free housekeeper in my own home.

"No."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. An email from Maya, my former college friend in engineering operations. A private Google Drive link.

Maya: "Blair, you need to see this. Someone posted this folder on the anonymous work forum last night."

I clicked the link. The folder was titled: "The Gray & Kloe Archive."

Over three hundred high-resolution photos from the past six months.

On our third anniversary, Grayson and Kloe had dinner at an intimate Italian bistro in Bellevue. That night he'd texted me that a major production outage had him stuck at the office.

Over a long weekend in May, they were at a ski lodge in Whistler. That weekend I had acute bronchitis and a fever of nearly 104, alone in this apartment for four days, while he told me he had to attend a mandatory engineering leadership summit.

One photo: a roaring fire in a stone fireplace, Kloe sitting on Grayson's lap, both holding mugs, her arms wrapped around his neck. Timestamp: May 14th, 8:15 PM. That same night at 8:12 PM, he'd texted me: "Summit is running seriously late. Go to bed, don't wait up."

I stared at the screen.

Every act of forbearance, every compromise, every lonely night of the past three years crystallized into one clear, piercing truth.

I didn't close the folder right away. First I long-pressed, selected all, and saved the three hundred-plus photos, timestamps, and text screenshots to my private encrypted cloud drive. I replied to Maya: "Don't delete the original link. Keep it for me."

Then I put my phone away, went back to the master bedroom for my purse and car keys, opened Grayson's chat, and typed three words.

Me: "We're done."