Chapter 2

The next day, I didn't cry. I acted. The first thing I did was call an auction house. I told them to come to the house I once shared with Ethan and take everything he had ever bought me. The designer clothes, the jewelry, the car. I wanted no trace of his money, or his memory, on my life.

The auctioneer, a polite man in a suit, walked through the rooms with a clipboard. "This painting?" he asked, pointing to a large abstract piece in the living room.

"He bought it. Sell it," I said.

"The first-edition collection of architectural theory?"

"A birthday gift from him. Sell it all."

While his team worked, I went into the study. On a high shelf, covered in a thin layer of dust, was a box. It was the "memory box" I had started for us. Inside were ticket stubs from our first movie, a dried rose from our first anniversary, photos from our trips. I had asked Ethan to add things to it, things that were special to him. He always said he would.

I opened the box. My things were on one side. The other side was empty. He had never added a single thing. For five years, he had never put a single memory of us in this box. The realization didn't hurt anymore, it just confirmed what I already knew. He was never truly there. He was always, in some part of his mind, with Chloe.

I closed the box and taped it shut. I didn't throw it away. I didn't want to. I carried it to my car, a final piece of a life I was leaving behind.

Then I found the wedding photos. The ones from our first attempt. We looked so happy, so full of hope. It was a beautiful lie captured on glossy paper. I couldn't bring myself to burn them. That felt too dramatic, too emotional. I simply took the large, framed portrait from the wall, wrapped it in a blanket, and placed it face down in the bottom of a moving box. I would bury it, just like I was burying the woman I used to be.

My phone rang. It was an unknown number. I almost ignored it, but I answered out of a strange sense of curiosity.

"Ava? It's Chloe." Her voice was surprisingly calm.

"What do you want?" I asked, my own voice flat.

"I think we need to talk. For Ethan's sake. He's a mess. Meet me for coffee. He thinks it's my idea, but it's for the best. He wants to apologize properly."

A trap. I knew it was a trap. But I also knew I had to face her one last time. "Fine. The cafe on Main Street. One hour."

I got there first and chose a table in the corner. Chloe arrived a few minutes later, looking pale and fragile. She sat down and ordered a tea.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "I know this is hard."

"Get to the point, Chloe."

She sighed and reached into her large purse. She pulled out a small photo album and slid it across the table. "I just want you to understand. It was never my intention to deceive you."

I opened it against my better judgment. The first page was a photo of Ethan and a very pregnant Chloe, his arm wrapped around her, his hand resting on her belly. They were smiling, a private, happy smile. The date stamp in the corner was from five years ago, right around the time Ethan and I had our first date.

Page after page, it was the same. Ethan with a newborn Lily. Ethan feeding her a bottle. Ethan pushing her on a swing. A secret family. A whole secret life he lived while he was with me.

The cafe door opened, and Ethan walked in. He saw me, saw the photo album on the table, and his face went white.

Chloe's eyes filled with tears. "Ethan, I'm so sorry," she cried out, her voice suddenly loud and shaky. "I tried to talk to her, to explain, but she's so angry!"

Then, she did something I never expected. She stood up so quickly that she knocked her chair over, stumbled, and fell to the floor, clutching her stomach. "She pushed me!" Chloe shrieked, looking at Ethan with wide, terrified eyes. "Ethan, she pushed me!"

Ethan rushed to her side, ignoring me completely. He helped her up, his arms around her protectively. He looked at me, his eyes filled with a new level of fury and disappointment. "Ava, what is wrong with you? How could you do this?"

I just sat there, surrounded by the evidence of his lies and a new, fabricated one, feeling absolutely nothing at all.