Chapter 3

Ethan insisted we go home. The car ride was silent and heavy, the air thick with unspoken accusations. Back in the sterile quiet of our apartment, he finally broke.

"Who was that?" he asked, throwing his keys onto the glass console table with a clatter.

"I told you. His name is Liam Thorne."

"And what were you doing, laughing with him like that?" His voice was laced with an ugly possessiveness. "After you stormed out of the house?"

I turned to face him, my exhaustion giving way to a cold, hard anger. "You mean after you humiliated me in my own kitchen to defend Willow? You don't get to be jealous, Ethan. You forfeited that right this morning."

He had the grace to look momentarily ashamed. "I was worried about her, Scarlett. Her hand was burned."

"It was a drop of coffee, and you know it," I said flatly. "You chose to believe her little act over the plans we made. Over me."

He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. "Look, I'm sorry about this morning. I overreacted." He stepped closer, trying to take my hands. "I just... when I saw you with him, I..."

I pulled my hands back. "You what? Realized I had somewhere else to be? Someone else to talk to? You can't keep me in a cage, Ethan, and only pay attention to me when you're afraid I might fly away."

His face hardened again. "This is about Willow, isn't it? You've had it out for her from the moment she arrived."

"This is about you!" I countered, my voice rising. "It's about how you let her waltz in here and take over. How you look at her. How you prioritize her feelings over your wife's. That is the problem."

He opened his mouth to argue, but we were interrupted by the chime of the front door. The doorman was buzzing up.

"Mr. Vance, there's a delivery for Mrs. Vance," the voice crackled through the intercom.

"Send it up," Ethan said, his eyes still locked on mine.

A few minutes later, a large, elegantly wrapped box from a high-end lingerie boutique arrived. I looked at it, confused. I hadn't ordered anything.

"Maybe a gift from a brand?" Ethan suggested, his anger momentarily forgotten.

I opened the box. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, was an expensive, ridiculously skimpy set of red lace lingerie. On top of it was a small, cream-colored card.

I picked it up. The note wasn't for me. It was for Ethan.

It read: 'Can' t wait to see you in this. Thinking of you always.' It was unsigned.

A cold dread washed over me. This was a deliberate, calculated attack. It was designed to look like Ethan was cheating, a power play to shatter whatever trust we had left. And I knew, with absolute certainty, who had sent it.

"What is it?" Ethan asked, seeing the look on my face.

I handed him the card without a word. I watched as he read it, his expression shifting from confusion to shock, and then to a dawning horror.

"Scarlett... I have no idea what this is," he said, his voice pleading. "I swear. I don't know who sent this."

"Don't you?" I asked, my voice dangerously low. "Think about it, Ethan. Who would want to do this? Who would want to drive a wedge between us? Who has been trying to do exactly that since the day she arrived?"

The color drained from his face as the implication sank in. "Willow? No. She wouldn't. Why would she do that?"

"Why?" I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "Because she's a predator, Ethan! She's not some poor, helpless little bird. She's a snake you welcomed into our home, and I have been telling you this for weeks!"

I was shouting now, the frustration and hurt of the past month pouring out of me. "I am so tired of this. I am tired of her fake tears and her little accidents. I am tired of you falling for it every single time!"

"It could be anyone," he argued, but his voice lacked conviction. The defense was weak, pathetic. "A business rival, someone trying to cause trouble."

"A business rival who knows our address and sends lingerie to your wife to make it look like you're cheating? Be serious!" I stalked across the room, my anger a living thing inside me. "Let's review, shall we? The night she arrived, she clung to you like a life raft. She' s been wearing my clothes, using my things, positioning herself as the lady of the house."

I ticked the points off on my fingers, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

"She 'accidentally' hurts herself whenever we have plans. She 'accidentally' interrupts every serious conversation we try to have. And now she sends a package designed for maximum damage, to make me think you're unfaithful."

I stopped in front of him, my eyes boring into his.

"How much more evidence do you need, Ethan? How blind are you going to let yourself be? She is systematically trying to destroy our marriage, and you are letting her. You are holding the goddamn door open for her."

He just stood there, speechless. The box of lingerie sat on the table between us, a garish red symbol of the poison that had infected our lives. His inability to see the truth, his desperate, willful blindness, was more painful than any affair. He wasn't just being fooled; he was choosing to be. And that choice was a betrayal all on its own.