Chapter 3
Ethan had never cooked for me.
Not even once.
A year earlier, I’d gotten so sick in the middle of the night that I could barely get out of bed. I asked him to heat up some water for me.
He didn’t even sit up.
“The kitchen smell makes me nauseous.”
So I dragged myself downstairs and did it myself.
At the time, I’d told myself he couldn’t help it.
Watching him sit beside Chloe now, after making her dinner, I finally understood.
He could.
He just never wanted to for me.
Ethan looked at Chloe and smiled.
“You know what I still think about?”
She blinked. “What?”
“That soup you made me when we were kids.”
Her expression shifted for a second.
Ethan didn’t notice.
“I’ve eaten at some ridiculous restaurants since then, and I still remember that soup.”
Chloe tugged on his sleeve.
“I’m literally in the ER and you’re asking me to cook?”
He laughed. “You’re fine.”
“Wow.”
“I’m serious. Make it for me again sometime.”
She leaned into him.
“Maybe.”
That was when Ethan looked up and saw me.
His smile disappeared.
“What are you doing here?”
I stared at him.
He stood.
“Did you follow me?”
For a second, I honestly thought he was joking.
“Are you serious?”
“Claire, come on.”
I gave him a tired smile.
“Yeah. I tracked you all the way to the ER with an IV in my hand.”
His eyes dropped.
Only then did he notice the line taped to the back of my hand.
His face changed.
“You’re sick?”
“Good catch.”
Before he could say anything, a nurse came over.
“Ms. Walker, you need to get back to your bay. And try not to bend that wrist.”
Ethan looked at the IV again.
I could see the guilt hit him.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
Then Chloe said, “Ethan, I’m cold.”
He turned around immediately.
“I’ve got you.”
He went back to the bed, pulled the blanket up around her, and sat beside her.
That was all I needed to see.
I turned and followed the nurse down the hall.
By morning, I’d already called a lawyer.
I didn’t cry about it. I didn’t change my mind.
I just wanted out.
Once I was discharged, I went home, showered, grabbed the documents my attorney had sent over, and headed straight to Walker Holdings.
The receptionist recognized me the second I walked in.
“Mrs. Walker.”
She looked uncomfortable.
That was never a good sign.
“Is Ethan here?”
She hesitated.
“He’s upstairs.”
“Where?”
“The private kitchen.”
I stopped.
Of course he was.
Ethan had built that kitchen for me before we got married.
It took up half the top floor—huge windows, marble counters, every appliance I’d ever mentioned wanting.
The first time he showed it to me, he’d wrapped his arms around my waist and said, “This place is yours. Nobody comes in unless you want them here.”
I’d believed him.
Apparently, I was an idiot.
“Do you want me to let him know you’re here?” the receptionist asked.
“No.”
I adjusted the folder under my arm.
“I’m not staying long.”
I took the elevator upstairs.
The closer I got to the kitchen, the more noise I heard.
Voices.
Music.
Someone laughing.
I frowned.
Then I opened the door.
And stopped.
The kitchen was packed with cameras, lights, and recording equipment.
Chloe was standing in the middle of it all.
Wearing my apron.
Using my stuff.
For a second, I couldn’t even process what I was looking at.
Then I saw the knife in her hand.
And everything else disappeared.