Chapter 2

I walked away from them, from the noise.

The brewery, usually my sanctuary, felt alien.

Every tank, every pipe, I knew its hum, its quirks.

This IPA, the one funding their champagne and Liam' s ego, was mine.

My recipe, developed long before Artisan Ales was a name on paper, before Chloe learned to talk about market shares and branding.

It was my intellectual property, a fact I' d made sure was legally sound, even if she' d forgotten.

I found a quiet corner near the fermentation tanks, the cool steel a small comfort.

The early days flashed in my mind.

Chloe, enthusiastic, supportive, her hand in mine as we signed the first lease on a tiny, rundown space.

"Your beer will change the world, Ethan," she' d said, her eyes shining with genuine belief.

Where did that Chloe go?

When did "us" become "me" for her, and "him" for everyone else?

The ambition had been a slow creep, then a rush.

Bigger, faster, more.

My concerns about quality, about sustainable growth, became "Ethan being difficult," "Ethan resisting progress."

Our private life, our seven years, faded into the background, an inconvenient detail in her grand plan.

The party raged on, a distant, mocking sound.

I looked at my hands, calloused from years of brewing, of building.

She hadn't just sidelined me tonight.

She' d erased me.

The thought didn' t bring anger, not yet. Just a vast, cold emptiness.

My contribution, the very soul of this brewery, was now just a commodity for her to leverage, for Liam to "refresh."

The hope I' d clung to, that this success would finally bring us public, solidify our partnership, shattered.

It lay in pieces on the brewery floor, amidst the spilled beer and the laughter of strangers.

A new resolve began to form, cold and hard.

If I was irrelevant here, then I wouldn't stay.