Chapter 2

A week after I left Jake, I went back to his penthouse. I told the doorman I was there to pick up the last of my things. He let me up without a word. Jake wasn't home.

I moved through the cold, sterile apartment, packing my clothes and art supplies into boxes. It felt like shedding a skin I had worn for too long. When I was done, I stood in the doorway, ready to leave for good. But then I realized I had forgotten something.

My mother's last painting.

It was a small canvas of a field of sunflowers, the ones that grew behind our old house. She painted it for me a month before she died, her hands shaking but her eyes full of light. Jake had insisted on hanging it in his study. He said it added "a touch of soul" to the room.

I had to go back.

I returned the next day. This time, when the elevator doors opened, Jake was there. And so was Brittany. They were standing by the large windows, looking out over the city.

Jake turned, his expression hardening when he saw me. "What do you want now, Chloe?"

Brittany smiled, a sweet, poisonous little thing. She slid her arm through Jake's and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Jake, honey, don't be rude. Maybe she came back to her senses."

I ignored her. My eyes were on Jake. "I'm here for my mother's painting."

He scoffed. "Still holding onto that thing?" He gestured towards the kitchen. "Brittany's thirsty. Get her a glass of water."

It wasn't a request. It was an order. The same tone he used with his employees.

Brittany' s smile widened. "Yes, Chloe, be a dear. I'm parched."

I thought about my mother. I thought about the days I spent by her side, watching her fade away while Jake was on that yacht with this woman. I remembered his phone call, the one where he told me Brittany was feeling down and needed a friend, so he was taking her away for a while.

That was the week my mother' s condition got worse.

That was the week he cut her insurance.

He left me alone to watch her die because I wouldn't cook this woman a meal.

I looked from Brittany' s smug face to Jake' s cold one. All the pain and anger I had buried came rushing back.

"I said," I repeated, my voice dangerously low, "we're done."

"This is over, Jake. You and me. Her and me. All of this. I want my painting, and then you will never see me again."