Chapter 2

My chest felt like it was caving in, like someone had a fist around my heart and was dragging it down.

I looked past all those eager, fawning faces. My gaze landed on a quiet young man sitting alone in the corner.

"I only want him."

He walked over. His young face still carried a trace of rawness, of inexperience.

"What's your name?" I asked. "Why are you here?"

"Noah Carter. Saving up for my sister's tuition."

"How old?"

"Twenty."

I drifted for a moment.

When I was twenty, I was a scholarship kid who counted every dollar at the cafeteria over a three-dollar plate of vegetables.

Until Ethan showed up and offered to sponsor my education.

Then he moved me into his house. Said it was closer, more convenient for tutoring.

Then, over time, we fell in love.

On our wedding day, I returned every cent he'd ever given me. Principal and interest. All of it.

I wanted him to know that I loved him — not his money.

And from that day forward, all of Harbor City knew.

Knew exactly how much Claire Bennett loved Ethan Hale.

A few drinks in, my throat was burning.

I pulled out my phone and wired Noah a hundred thousand.

"Don't come back here."

The words had barely left my mouth when several pairs of eyes cut my way.

"That kid actually looks a bit like Ethan did in college."

"You can tell — Claire's still hopelessly in love with Ethan."

Ethan tugged at the corner of his mouth with lazy indifference.

One of his friends sauntered over with a glass, waggling his eyebrows at me.

"Claire, Ethan already booked you a room. Penthouse suite. Amazing views."

He deliberately raised his voice, like he was afraid someone might miss it.

"I bet she won't go."

"She's not that kind of woman. It's all an act. Give it a minute — she'll wire the money back and come crying to Ethan for forgiveness."

After a few rounds of loud ribbing, every eye in the place was nailed to me.

Ethan tapped the keycard against the table, over and over, pinched between his fingers.

He looked up at me, mouth curved in an assured smile.

I walked over and plucked the card from between his fingers.

"Thanks."

The metal edge dragged across his fingertip. His smile stiffened for just a fraction of a second.

The VIP suite on the top floor. Dim lighting.

Ethan sat in the suite next door, shirt unbuttoned two buttons down, exposing the old scar beneath his collarbone.

Junior year. A lab instrument had malfunctioned. He'd thrown himself over me, taken the blast. Seven stitches.

I'd cried the entire night.

He'd laughed it off and told me it didn't hurt.

I looked up at the face that had once captivated me completely.

Tears welled in my eyes, but I clenched my jaw and refused to let them fall.

Ethan reached up instinctively, as if to wipe them away.

In that instant, something flickered in his eyes. It might have been guilt.

"Ivy's pregnant," he said. "I have to give her some kind of answer."

"Just be good about this. Once the baby's born, everything goes back to the way it was."

Everything goes back to the way it was. What an easy thing to say.

But I wasn't willing anymore.

I stepped back, out of his reach.

Ethan stared at me for two full seconds.

The next moment, the door slammed shut in front of me.

I closed my door too.

From next door came the faint sounds almost immediately — the muffled creak of bedsprings.

Ivy's breathy "that hurts" was ground down into half a trembling note.

Ethan's voice, threaded with heavy breathing.

"Relax."

One thrust. Then another.

Like it was deliberate. Like he wanted me to hear.

In the group chat, his friends were placing bets on how long I'd last.

"I bet Claire's staring at her phone crying right now. She'll storm out and make a scene any minute."

"She's way too jealous. Even if she's trying to save face, she won't last more than half an hour."

They weren't wrong that I used to make scenes.

The first time I found another woman's perfume on him, I burned his clothes.

He said it was accidental contact.

The second time, I had his car towed into a lake.

After that, he stopped explaining.

He started paying me off instead.

Ethan sent a voice message to the group.

"I bet she lasts the whole night. If I lose, the house is yours."

The chat exploded.

Everyone praised Ethan's generosity — an eight-figure property, offered up just like that.

I stared at the screen, my fingertips ice cold.

That house. I'd overseen every inch of the renovation myself.

From knocking down walls to painting them. From choosing tiles to picking light fixtures. I'd touched every plank of wood with my own hands.

And now he'd tossed it away like it was nothing.

As if our marriage — these past few years — weighed less than air.

I grabbed my coat and headed for the door.

Another message from Ethan popped up, his voice carrying the lazy satisfaction of a man who'd just finished.

"You don't want to hand the house over to strangers, do you?"

"Do this for me. Just get through tonight."

"After tonight, I'll transfer the deed to your name. Double the alimony."

Clean logic. Clear price tag.

He kept his dignity. I got the house.

Sounded like a win-win.

But the most pathetic part?

This was all we had left to talk about.

The bathroom door opened.

Noah stepped out, toweling his hair. Water droplets traced down his abs and disappeared beneath the edge of the towel.