Chapter 3

Olivia POV

Marcus didn't drink. He was a control freak who treated his body like a temple, monitoring every calorie and every hour of sleep. So when he stumbled through the front door that night, reeking of expensive scotch, I knew it was a performance.

He collapsed onto the sofa, loosening his tie with jerky, theatrical movements. I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at him.

"Liv?" he called out. His voice was thick, deliberately slurred.

I walked down. I didn't rush to him like I used to, fluttering with concern. I walked slowly, counting every step.

"I'm here," I said.

He looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused. He reached out, grabbing my waist and pulling me between his legs. He buried his face in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into the fabric of my dress. "I'm so sorry."

For a second, a pathetic, hopeful part of me thought he was apologizing for the dinner. For the scallops. For the years of neglect.

Then he tightened his grip, squeezing me so hard it bruised.

"Don't leave me again, Izzy," he whispered. "Please don't leave me."

I went rigid.

He wasn't holding me. He was holding a ghost.

"I'm not Izzy," I said. My voice was ice.

He looked up, blinking as if trying to clear a fog. His eyes were glassy. "You look like her. In this light... you're just like her."

"Who do you love, Marcus?" I asked. It was the question I had been too afraid to voice for three years.

He laughed. It was a cruel, broken sound. "Love? There's only her. There's always been only her. You... you're safe. You're quiet. You don't break my heart."

He slumped back against the cushions, closing his eyes. "I need you to stay. I need you to have the baby. We'll name her Isabelle. It'll be like... like getting a second chance."

The air left the room.

He wanted to name our child after his mistress.

He passed out moments later. His breathing evened out into a rhythmic snore.

I stood there, trembling. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. I couldn't breathe. I gasped for air, clutching my throat, but the room was shrinking around me.

I pulled away from him. I stumbled backward, falling onto the rug.

I looked at him. He looked peaceful. He had unloaded his truth onto me and now he could sleep.

I crawled away. I literally crawled until I was out of the living room and into the shadows of the corridor.

I sat in the hallway, hugging my knees.

Then I heard his phone buzz. It was in his jacket pocket, draped over the chair back inside the room.

I stood up. I walked back in. I took the phone.

It was unlocked. He never locked it because he thought I was too trusting to check.

It was a voice memo from Izzy. Sent ten minutes ago.

I pressed play.

"Marcus, you have to calm down. You can't tell her. Not yet. We need her father's shares. Just keep playing house for a few more months. Once the baby is born, we can figure it out. She's just a vessel, remember? You told me that. She's just a placeholder."

I dropped the phone.

*Just a vessel.*

I walked to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face. I looked in the mirror. I didn't look like Izzy anymore. I looked like a stranger. A tired, broken stranger.

"No," I whispered to my reflection.

I went to the bedroom. I packed a single bag. Not clothes. Just my documents. My passport. The signed share transfer agreement.

I waited until morning.

When the sun came up, Marcus was still asleep on the sofa. I walked past him. I didn't cover him with a blanket.

I drove straight to my father's lawyer.

"I want to finalize the transfer," I told him. "And I want to file a post-nuptial agreement regarding the shares. They belong to me. Solely."

The lawyer looked at my pale face. "Are you sure, Mrs. Vance?"

"It's Ms. Hayes," I said. "And yes. I'm sure."

My phone rang. It was Marcus.

I stared at the screen.

*Answer it,* a voice in my head said. *Play the game one last time.*

"Hello?"

"Where are you?" Marcus sounded groggy. "I have a headache."

"I'm running errands," I said. My voice was steady. It scared me how steady it was.

"Izzy called," he said. "She wants to go to the memorial site today. For her brother. She shouldn't drive alone. I'm going to take her."

"Okay," I said.

"You should come," he added. It was an afterthought. A way to make it look innocent.

"Sure," I said. "I'll be there."

I hung up.

I wasn't going to the memorial to pay respects. I was going to watch my marriage burn to the ground.