Chapter 2

That night Ethan came home.

His face was unreadable, but his eyes were bright — the kind of bright that comes with calculation.

He pressed a sheet music book into my arms.

"I said I'd give you this. Here."

Then he sat at the piano, his back to me, hunching over the keys with clumsy, searching fingers.

Once, I'd have done what Serena did — snapped a photo, posted it with some caption like my man making a fool of himself to make me smile.

Instead I asked quietly:

"When did it start?"

The music stopped.

Ethan turned, brow creasing.

"I explained. I tried to make it right. Vivian, what more do you want?"

I held his gaze.

"There's a pair of slippers in the entryway that aren't mine. A new perfume on the bathroom shelf that isn't mine. A stuffed toy on the dresser. And in your nightstand — strawberry-flavored condoms. A brand we've never once bought. And in your closet—"

"Enough!"

The room went silent.

Only the sound of our breathing, amplified.

Ethan stood. The sheet music crumpled in his grip, knuckles white.

He looked at me with an expression I didn't recognize — cold, and deeply disappointed.

"Vivian, I'm starting to wonder if your father's problems were genetic. Are you planning to threaten me next? Jump off something to force my hand — the way he used his death to punish your mother?"

The words detonated inside my chest.

I'd expected denial. Deflection. Anger.

Not this. Not him reaching into an old wound and tearing it wide open.

"There are things a mature person sees and doesn't say. Whatever I do outside this house, you will always be the future Mrs. Harrington. I destroyed my hands for you. I gave up surgery. And you repay that with suspicion?"

"Serena using your bathroom was wrong. She apologized. Everything else you're inventing. And don't you dare go after her for it."

He was louder now with every sentence.

His voice cold. His eyes certain.

The look of a man convinced she had nowhere to go.

I watched him and thought: that certainty in his eyes is the most repulsive thing I've ever seen.

Not guilt. Not shame.

The confidence of someone who knows you're trapped.

My throat tightened.

I didn't say another word.

He only remembered that he'd lost the use of his hands. That he'd given up surgery.

He'd forgotten I'd lost the use of mine too — spending every day in the kitchen, making sure he was fed.

He went to bed. I sat at the piano and pressed the keys one by one.

The melody was still there.

But it felt like playing in an empty room.

Past midnight, Ethan slipped out.

The door clicked shut. I opened my eyes.

A few minutes later, Serena posted again on Instagram.

Five photos. Each one a firework exploding against the night sky.

Together they spelled out: Ethan loves Serena.

The same declaration. The same fireworks. Three years ago it had been for me.

That night, Ethan's company had gone public. He'd handed me the keys to this house — with the balcony full of roses and orchids and succulents — and shouted into the sky:

"I promised you, Vivian. I did it. I'll love you for the rest of my life."

Same man. Same fireworks. Different name.

My phone lit up. A message from my mother.

I didn't read it. I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and began folding clothes.

The important documents went in first.

When Ethan came home and found the case sitting by the door, he'd think I was bluffing.

He was right that I hadn't left.

He was wrong about why.

My flight was the day after tomorrow.