Chapter 2

Ethan didn't believe me.

Not really.

He called again the next morning. "Ava, seriously, this joke isn't funny. Moving in with Liam? My parents called, they're... confused. They said Liam told them you two are getting married. For real."

I remained silent, letting him talk. I was sitting in Liam's sun-filled kitchen, a cup of tea warming my hands. It was peaceful here.

"Look, I get it, you're mad. You're jealous of Chloe, of the attention I'm giving her. But this is extreme, even for you."

Jealous. He thought this was about jealousy. He had no idea.

"Ava? Are you even listening? This is crazy. We're getting married. You and me."

"No, Ethan," I said, my voice calm. "Liam and I are getting married."

He scoffed. "Right. And I'm flying to the moon tomorrow. Come on, Ava, drop the act. It was funny for a minute, but Chloe's going to be asking questions."

I didn't offer any further explanation. I just let him stew in his disbelief. Let him think I was playing a part. It suited my purposes.

He hung up, frustrated.

Later, another text: "Just a little longer, babe. This is all for show. You know she's fragile. We'll laugh about this later. I promise. Once Chloe's better, we'll have our wedding. Bigger, better than before."

I deleted it without replying.

I spent the morning with Liam, discussing actual wedding plans. A small, elegant ceremony. He suggested the New York Botanical Garden. It sounded perfect.

I found myself looking at him, really looking at him. His quiet strength, the intelligence in his eyes. The way he listened, truly listened, when I spoke.

He wasn't Ethan. He wasn't flashy or charming in that overwhelming way. He was... solid. Real.

I went out that afternoon and bought a gift for Liam. A rare first-edition book on architectural history I knew he'd appreciate. It felt good, normal even.

When I got back to the brownstone, Ethan was there. He'd let himself in.

He was standing in the living room, a smug look on his face. Next to him, on the floor, were two large trash bags.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Oh, just cleaning out some of your old stuff from my place," he said casually. "Chloe was asking about some of your things, you know, women's stuff in the bathroom, clothes in the closet. Easier to just say they were from an old tenant and get rid of them. Making space for her, you know?"

My old stuff. My life with him, reduced to trash bags.

One bag was open. I saw the corner of a framed photo – us, smiling, on vacation in Italy. A small, handmade ceramic bowl I'd bought at a craft fair, which I always kept my rings in. My favorite cashmere sweater.

He was literally throwing our past away.

"Chloe was a bit overwhelmed seeing someone else's things," he continued, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. "Makes her feel more at home if it's just... us."

Us. Him and Chloe.

Chloe then appeared in the doorway, leaning on Ethan's arm. She looked pale but pretty, her eyes wide and innocent.

"Oh, Ava! Hi, sis!" she chirped. "Ethan was just telling me you're helping Liam redecorate. So sweet of you!"

She looked at the trash bags. "Is that old stuff? Good to get rid of clutter, right?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

Ethan beamed at her. "Exactly, sweetheart."

He then turned to me, a conspiratorial wink. "Just playing our parts, right?"

Chloe, encouraged by Ethan, started insisting on "double dates" and "family" dinners. She wanted to get to know "Liam's girl" better.

One evening, we were at a stuffy, traditional restaurant Ethan had chosen because Chloe "remembered" loving it. It was the kind of place I found pretentious, but Ethan was all smiles, catering to Chloe's every whim.

The air conditioning was blasting. Chloe shivered. "Ooh, it's a bit chilly, Eth."

Instantly, Ethan took off his expensive suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders. "Better, sweetie?"

"Much," she cooed, snuggling into it.

I watched them, a strange detachment settling over me. Ethan hated being cold. He never gave up his jacket. For me, he'd always suggest I should have brought a sweater, or he'd reluctantly offer his, but with a sigh that made me feel like a burden.

He caught me looking and shot me a quick text under the table, while Chloe was animatedly telling Liam about a high school memory with Ethan.

Ethan: She gets cold easily. Just keeping up appearances. Don't read into it.

I didn't reply. I was too busy having an epiphany.

Love, for Ethan, wasn't a constant. It was a performance. And with Chloe, he was giving an Oscar-worthy one. With me, he'd barely bothered to learn his lines.

He was capable of deep devotion, of grand gestures, of selfless acts like giving up his jacket in a cold restaurant.

Just not for me.

Never for me.

The realization didn't bring fresh pain. It brought a strange, cold clarity. He hadn't just chosen Chloe now; in a way, he'd chosen his capacity for that kind of love with her, long ago. What he'd offered me was a diluted version, a comfortable habit.

Suddenly, a waiter, rushing past, stumbled. A tray laden with steaming coffee carafes went flying.