Chapter 2

I walked back into the restaurant a few minutes later, the bouquet of roses held loosely in my hand. I had composed my face into a mask of tired affection, the one I' d worn for years. The one she expected to see.

Emily and Chloe looked up as I approached.

"Liam, honey, you' re here," Emily said, her smile bright and flawless. It was a performance, and now that I knew, I could see the strings.

"Sorry I' m late. The traffic was terrible," I lied, placing the roses on the table. "Happy anniversary."

"Oh, they' re beautiful," she said, pulling one out and sniffing it with exaggerated delight. "You always remember."

"Of course I do." My voice was steady, a minor miracle.

Chloe smirked from across the table, her eyes raking over my slightly worn suit. "Still trying, Hayes? Ninety-nine times and you still have money for roses. That' s dedication. Or delusion. I can never tell which."

I gave a weak smile, playing my part. "It' s the hundredth time that' s the charm, Chloe."

"Is it?" she drawled, taking a sip of her wine. "Or is it just the hundredth hole you' re digging?"

"Chloe, be nice," Emily chided gently, but her eyes were dancing with amusement. She reached across the table and placed her hand over mine. Her skin was warm, her touch familiar. It used to be my comfort. Now, it felt like a spider crawling on my skin. I had to fight the urge to snatch my hand away.

"Don' t listen to her, honey," Emily murmured, her voice dropping into that intimate tone she reserved for me. "I believe in you. I' ll always believe in you."

The hypocrisy was so profound it was almost breathtaking. She squeezed my hand, her thumb stroking my knuckles. I could feel the expensive ring she wore, the one I' d bought her with the last of my savings from before the crash, a symbol of a promise she had never intended to keep. I felt a wave of nausea.

"I' m… I' m not very hungry," I said, pulling my hand away under the pretense of shifting in my seat.

"Oh, Liam. You have to eat. You' ve been working so hard," she said, her face a perfect portrait of wifely concern. "You look exhausted."

I am exhausted, I thought. Exhausted of being your fool.

"I just feel a little off," I said. "Maybe it' s the stress from the last project."

"Don' t even think about that," she said dismissively. "It' s in the past. We' re celebrating us tonight." She gestured for the waiter, ordering a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu. When it arrived, she raised her glass. "To five years. And to many more."

I raised my glass, the crystal feeling cold and heavy. I met her eyes over the rim. I saw nothing there but a reflection of the man she wanted me to be: hopeful, clueless, and utterly devoted. I tilted the glass to my lips, but let none of the champagne pass them. It would be like drinking poison.

We sat through the appetizer course, a blur of small talk and Chloe' s thinly veiled insults. Emily recounted a funny story about our first date, a story she' d told a dozen times. I laughed on cue. It was a macabre play, and I was the only actor who hadn't been given the real script until tonight.

I had to get out of there. I needed to be alone. I needed to start.

"You know," I said, placing my napkin on the table. "I just had an idea. For the algorithm. Something I missed."

Emily' s expression tightened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of annoyance before the supportive mask snapped back into place. It was the first crack I' d ever truly seen.

"Honey, not tonight. Can' t it wait until tomorrow?"

"No, I… I have to get it down before I forget it," I said, standing up. It was a move she knew well. My sudden bursts of inspiration. My retreat to the workshop to scribble on whiteboards. She had always encouraged it before. It was, after all, how she got her material.

"This is important, Em," I said, my voice low and urgent. "This could be the one."

I watched her mind work. I could almost see the calculation in her eyes. Another idea for her to steal. Another jewel to hand over to Mark. This was a valuable opportunity for her.

Her feigned reluctance melted away. "Okay," she said, her smile returning, genuine this time. "Okay, honey. You go. Don' t lose it. We can celebrate properly this weekend."

"You' re the best," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I leaned down to kiss her cheek, the scent of her perfume making my stomach churn. Her skin was soft, but all I could feel was the coldness beneath. "I love you."

"I love you too," she lied, her voice a perfect imitation of sincerity.

I turned and walked out of the restaurant, not looking back. I didn't head for my workshop. The workshop, our home, the life we had built-it was all contaminated, a crime scene.

As I stepped out into the cool night air, I felt a strange sense of clarity. The heartbreak was still there, a raw, open wound. But the confusion was gone. For five years, I had been lost in a fog of failure and self-doubt. Now, the fog had lifted.

I saw the path forward. It wasn't a path of creation anymore. It was a path of deconstruction. I was going to dismantle her life, and Mark' s, piece by piece, using the very tools of logic and precision she had exploited.

My hundredth venture, I thought with a grim sense of irony, would not be a tech startup.

It would be justice.