Chapter 3

In the weeks that followed, a fragile peace settled over our lives. I threw myself back into my art with a renewed passion, the vibrant colors on my canvases reflecting the tentative hope in my heart. Liam was more present than ever before. He made a point to be home for dinner every night. He would come into my studio, not to talk, but just to sit and watch me work, a quiet, reassuring presence in the corner of my eye.

One afternoon, Sarah sent me a video link with the message, "Look at this train wreck."

It was a paparazzi video taken outside one of Liam's office buildings. Chloe Miller was standing by the entrance, looking thin and wan. When Liam exited the building, she rushed towards him, her face a mask of desperate appeal. Liam didn't even break his stride. His security guards formed a human wall, neatly boxing her out as he swept past her and into his waiting car without a single glance in her direction.

I felt a surge of satisfaction. He was keeping his word. She was truly a ghost to him.

But Chloe was nothing if not persistent. A few days later, a massive thunderstorm rolled in, the kind that turns the sky black in the middle of the afternoon. I was in my studio, watching the rain lash against the windows, when my phone buzzed. It was Sarah again.

"You are not going to believe this. Look outside your front gate."

I walked to the front of the house, my stomach tightening with a sense of dread. Through the rain-streaked glass, I could see a pathetic figure huddled just outside our gate. It was Chloe. She was soaked to the bone, her hair plastered to her face, her body trembling violently. She wasn't trying to get in. She was just standing there, a dramatic tableau of suffering, perfectly positioned to be seen from the house.

It was a blatant, manipulative performance. I was about to call security to have her removed when I saw the front door open. Liam walked out, holding a large black umbrella. He didn't go to her. He just stood on the top step, watching her.

My heart pounded in my chest. Don't do it, Liam. Don't fall for it.

He stood there for a long moment, his figure silhouetted against the storm. Then, he took a step forward. And another. He walked down the steps and out into the rain, the umbrella held over his head. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I saw him gesture to a black car that had pulled up silently to the curb. He spoke to the driver, then turned and walked back into the house, leaving Chloe to be bundled into the car by his security team.

When he came back inside, dripping water onto the marble floor, his face was a mask of grim obligation.

"She has nowhere to go," he said, before I could even ask. "I put her up in one of the company condos downtown. Temporarily. It was the decent thing to do."

"The decent thing to do?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "Liam, she is manipulating you."

"She's destitute, Ava," he shot back, a defensive edge to his tone. "Blacklisted, just like I ordered. I'm not going to let her die on my doorstep. That's not who I am."

The fragile peace between us shattered. That old, familiar feeling of being the substitute, the placeholder, rushed back in. He still felt a sense of responsibility for her.

The next day, I made a decision. If he was going to allow her back into our orbit, I was going to establish my territory. I was Mrs. Liam Hayes. I dressed in my most expensive suit, called the security team for the downtown condo building, and informed them I would be arriving to inspect the property.

When I arrived, Chloe opened the door, a triumphant smirk on her face. "I knew he couldn't stay away," she said.

"You're mistaken," I told her, walking past her into the apartment. "This isn't a gift. It's a temporary shelter. And your time is up." I turned to the two security guards I had brought with me. "Please escort Ms. Miller from the premises. She is not to take anything with her."

Chloe's face twisted in fury. "You can't do this! Liam gave me this place!"

"Liam's wife is kicking you out," I said coldly. "Pack your things."

Watching her being frog-marched out of the building, clutching her handbag, gave me a brief, savage sense of victory.

That night was the annual Hayes Foundation charity gala, the biggest social event of the year. It was an event Liam had never, ever missed. He was supposed to be home by six to get ready. Six o'clock came and went. Then seven. I called his phone. Straight to voicemail. I called his assistant, who sounded flustered and told me Mr. Hayes had left the office hours ago and was unreachable.

He never showed up. I went to the gala alone, a forced smile plastered on my face, making excuses for my husband's absence. The humiliation burned in my gut.

He didn't come home until nearly three in the morning. I was waiting for him in the living room, the lights off.

He flicked on the switch, and his face was a thundercloud of rage.

"Where were you?" I asked, my voice shaking.

"Where was I?" he spat. "I was dealing with the mess you made, Ava!"

He threw his tablet onto the coffee table. The screen lit up, showing a video. It was grainy, dark security footage from an alleyway. It showed Chloe, cowering on the ground as two large men stood over her, ripping her purse from her hands and throwing her against a brick wall.

"She was attacked, robbed," Liam ground out, his voice seething. "Right after you had her thrown out onto the street with nothing. This is on you. She could have been killed!"

I stared at the screen, then at him, my mind reeling. The attack looked staged. The men were clumsy, their movements theatrical. But Liam didn't see that. He saw his fragile first love, brutalized and alone.

"You think I did this?" I whispered, horrified.

"I think your actions led to this!" he roared. "I asked you to leave her alone! But you couldn't do that, could you? You had to play the jealous wife!"

"I am your wife!" I screamed back, my control finally snapping.

"You're the woman who broke us up in the first place!" he yelled, his face contorted with a pain that was years old. "She told me everything. How you schemed to get close to me after we had that fight. How you manipulated me. I thought she was lying, a bitter ex. But now I see! You have always been the other woman!"

The accusation hung in the air, so vile and unbelievable it sucked the breath from my lungs. He was rewriting history, using Chloe's poison to paint me as the villain in a story that started long before I ever entered it.

"You are going to go to her tomorrow, and you are going to apologize," he commanded.

"No," I said, my voice dead. "I will not apologize for being your wife."

"Then maybe you should stop being my wife!" he shouted, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard a painting rattled on the wall.

I sank onto the sofa, the silence of the massive house pressing in on me. I was alone. Utterly and completely alone. I picked up my phone. The top news story on a gossip site was a photo of Liam Hayes rushing into a hospital, his face etched with worry. The headline read: "Tech Mogul Liam Hayes at Chloe Miller's Bedside After Vicious Attack."

I looked around the perfectly decorated room, a monument to a life that was never really mine. And I started making a plan. Not to fight, not to win him back. But to leave.