Chapter 2

My phone buzzed again. It was Mr. Sterling. I let it ring, the sound echoing in the sterile silence of my home office. He called again. And again. On the fourth try, I answered, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the large oak desk.

"You can't be serious, Ethan," his voice crackled with a mix of authority and controlled panic. "This is not how we handle things. You don't just walk away."

"I just did," I said, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window at the dark, manicured lawn.

"What happened? Did she do something?" he pressed.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. "You could say that."

There was a long silence. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, calculating, strategizing.

"Did you ever love her, Ethan?" he asked, his tone shifting, becoming softer, more inquisitive. It was a manipulative move, an attempt to find a weakness.

The question hit me harder than I expected. Did I love her?

Yes. God, yes. I had loved the woman I thought she was. I loved her ambition, her supposed strength, her creativity. I loved the way her eyes lit up when she talked about a new design. I loved the facade she had so expertly crafted. My heart ached with the memory of that love, a phantom limb that still throbbed with pain.

But it was love for a ghost. A character she played. The real Olivia, the one who mocked me with her brother-lover, was a stranger. A cruel, manipulative stranger.

"It doesn't matter anymore," I finally answered, my voice flat.

"Of course it matters," he insisted. "She's... complicated. But she cares for you, in her own way. She's always talking about your new projects, how brilliant you are. She defends you to everyone."

I thought of Olivia at the industry parties, her hand possessively on my arm. I had seen it as pride, as affection. Now I saw it for what it was: brand management. She wasn't defending me; she was defending her cover, her shield. She was polishing her asset. It was all about appearances, a meticulously curated public image to hide the rot underneath.

All her supposed efforts-the perfect hostess, the supportive wife, the public praise-it wasn't for me. It was for her and Daniel. Every "loving" gesture was a twist of the knife, a private joke at my expense. The anger that had been simmering began to boil, hot and cleansing. They had made a fool of me, and my own genuine feelings had been the fuel for their deception. I would not give them one more ounce of it.

"I overheard her tonight, Mr. Sterling," I said, the words coming out sharp and precise. "With Daniel. I know everything."

The silence on the other end of the line was absolute, heavy with admission. He didn't deny it. He didn't even feign surprise. He already knew. He had always known.

"I see," he said, his voice losing all its false warmth, turning back to pure business. He misunderstood my silence that followed, probably thinking I was broken and malleable. "Alright. I'll handle this. I'll arrange for you to take a trip. A long one. Go to the site in Japan. We'll say you're overseeing the new resort project. Just... don't talk to Olivia. Don't mention any of this. Let me deal with my children."

The irony was staggering. He was still trying to control the narrative, to manage the fallout. He wasn't offering a solution; he was offering a gag order.

"There's nothing to deal with," I said, my decision solidifying into something unbreakable. "It's already done."

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather couch. The house I had designed with so much love and hope felt like a tomb. It was time to leave.