Chapter 2

The next few weeks were a masterclass in psychological warfare, with Willow as the general and me as the besieged fortress. She was an artist of subtle manipulation, her weapons of choice being feigned helplessness and a bottomless well of victimhood. Our home, once my sanctuary, now felt like occupied territory.

I' d come home from a grueling day at the studio to find Willow on the couch, wrapped in one of my cashmere throws, watching daytime television. She' d always have a story about how she tried to do some chore-laundry, dishes-but was just too weak or confused by our high-tech appliances. Ethan would then praise her for the effort, shooting me a look that clearly said, See? She' s trying. Be nice.

The breaking point came on a bright Saturday morning. Ethan and I were supposed to have a rare day to ourselves, a brunch reservation at a place we' d been trying to get into for months. It was a small thing, but it felt important, a chance to reconnect.

I came into the kitchen dressed and ready, only to find Ethan dabbing at Willow' s hand with a wet cloth. A shattered coffee mug lay on the floor, a dark puddle spreading across the white marble.

"What happened?" I asked, my voice tight.

"I'm so sorry, Scarlett," Willow whimpered, cradling her hand. "The mug just slipped. I think it' s broken." She bit her lip, tears welling in her eyes. "I just wanted to make you and Ethan coffee to thank you for everything."

Ethan wasn' t looking at me. His focus was entirely on Willow's hand, which had a faint red mark on it. "It' s okay, Willow. It was an accident."

He glanced up at me, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "Scarlett, can you get the first aid kit? She might have burned herself."

I stared at him, incredulous. "Ethan, we have reservations. We need to leave."

"We can be a little late," he snapped. "My cousin is hurt."

"It's a small burn, Ethan," I said, my patience wearing thin. "Run it under cold water. She' ll be fine."

Willow let out a small, pained gasp, as if my words had physically wounded her. "She's right, Ethan. I'm fine. Don't let me ruin your day. I'm always ruining things."

She pulled her hand away and made a show of trying to clean up the mess, wincing dramatically.

That was all it took for Ethan. His annoyance with me solidified into cold anger.

"What is wrong with you, Scarlett?" he said, his voice low and sharp, right there in front of her. "Can you not show an ounce of compassion? Look at her. She' s trying her best, and all you can do is stand there and complain about brunch."

The humiliation was a hot flush that spread up my neck. He was admonishing me, his wife, for the sake of this manipulative girl who had been in our lives for less than a month. He was making me the villain in a drama she had orchestrated.

"I am not the problem here, Ethan," I said, my voice shaking with fury.

"That's exactly what the problem is," he shot back. "You can't see past your own nose. Just get the kit."

I stood frozen for a moment, the sound of his words echoing in the pristine kitchen. He had chosen her. So publicly, so definitively.

Without another word, I turned on my heel and walked out of the kitchen. I didn't get the first aid kit. I grabbed my purse and my car keys from the hall table.

"Where are you going?" Ethan called after me, his voice laced with disbelief.

"Out," I said, not looking back. "I've lost my appetite."

I slammed the door behind me, the sound a satisfying crack in the suffocating atmosphere of my own home.

I drove aimlessly for an hour, the city a blur of glass and steel. I ended up at a charity gala I was supposed to attend that evening with Ethan. I decided to go early, needing to be surrounded by people, by the familiar world of business and ambition where I knew the rules.

I was standing by the bar, nursing a glass of champagne, when a man I vaguely recognized approached me.

"Scarlett Hayes," he said, his smile warm and genuine. "Liam Thorne. We met briefly at the tech summit last spring. Your speech on brand integration was brilliant."

I remembered him then. A charismatic entrepreneur who had just sold his software company for a fortune. He had an easy confidence that was a world away from Ethan' s increasingly tense demeanor.

"Mr. Thorne," I said, managing a small smile. "Thank you."

"Please, call me Liam," he said. "Are you alright? You look like you just went ten rounds with a heavyweight."

His directness was startling, and for some reason, I didn't mind.

"Something like that," I admitted.

"Well, for what it' s worth," he said, leaning against the bar, "you won. You always do." He gestured vaguely toward my brand' s logo, which was displayed prominently on a banner. "What you've built is incredible."

We talked for a while about business, about the market, about everything and nothing. It was easy. He listened when I spoke, his eyes focused on me. It was a simple courtesy that felt like a lifeline. He made me laugh, a real, genuine laugh that had been absent for weeks.

Just as I was starting to feel a semblance of my old self, I saw Ethan walk into the gala. His eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on me, they narrowed. He saw me laughing with Liam, saw the easy rapport between us. He started walking toward us, his stride long and purposeful.

He reached us and didn't even acknowledge Liam. He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly tight.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice low and possessive.

"I was invited," I said, pulling my arm away from his grasp. "And I'm having a conversation."

I turned to Liam. "Liam, this is my husband, Ethan Vance. Ethan, this is Liam Thorne."

Liam extended a hand. "Vance. Good to meet you. I'm a big admirer of your work."

Ethan ignored the outstretched hand. His eyes were locked on me, blazing with a jealous fire I hadn't seen before. It was possessive, territorial. He was furious that I had found a moment of peace, a moment of connection, with someone else.

"We need to talk," he said through gritted teeth.

"We have nothing to talk about," I replied coolly.

His jaw tightened. The man who had publicly shamed me for not showing enough compassion to his cousin was now acting like a jealous tyrant because I was speaking to another man. The hypocrisy was breathtaking.

He saw the defiance in my eyes and his expression turned colder. He was losing control, and he hated it. This public display, his possessive grip, his simmering rage-it wasn't about love. It was about ownership. And I was suddenly, terrifyingly, aware that I was no longer an equal partner in his eyes. I was a possession he was afraid of losing.