Chapter 2

I stayed hidden behind the plant, my breathing shallow. The conversation continued, each word another layer of betrayal.

"I just don't want to see you get burned," Chas warned. "This is fraud, Jaydan. Real, actual fraud. Cuba is using Adeline' s exact framework."

"It's not fraud if no one can prove it," Jaydan said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I cover my tracks. Besides, Adeline's work would never have seen the light of day without me. I gave it to someone who could actually make it succeed. I gave it to Cuba."

He said it like he was proud, like he'd done something noble. He leaned back, taking a long sip of his whiskey.

"Adeline is... fragile. She wouldn't know what to do with that kind of success anyway. This is better for everyone."

The condescension in his voice made my stomach turn. Fragile. He thought I was fragile. He had mistaken my trust for weakness. He had mistaken my grief for incompetence.

I remembered the early days after my parents died. I was a ghost, walking through the city that had turned on us. People would cross the street to avoid me. Old friends would pretend they didn't see me. Jaydan found me sitting on a park bench in the rain, completely numb. He wrapped his coat around me and said, "I'm not going anywhere."

He had seemed so sincere. He handled the lawyers, the press, the overwhelming debt. He paid for the funerals when I couldn't access a single cent of my family's frozen assets. He gave me a home. He gave me a future.

Or so I thought.

Now, I saw the truth. It wasn't support; it was an investment. He wasn't protecting me; he was isolating me. Every time he'd said, "Don't worry, I'll take care of it," he was tightening his control, ensuring I remained dependent, ensuring he was the sole gatekeeper to my life and my work.

I remembered showing him my first proposal, my eyes shining with hope. I had believed, with my whole heart, that this project could redeem my parents' names. He read it and said, "This is brilliant, Addie. Truly. But the market is tough. Let me help you refine it."

His "refinements" were always minor, just enough to make me feel like we were a team. But now I knew. Every suggestion, every critique, was a way for him to understand my work more deeply so he could pass it on to Cuba.

The trust I had placed in him, the foundation of my life for the past five years, crumbled to dust. There was no pain, no tears. Just a vast, empty space where my love for him used to be.

I turned and walked away, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet. I didn't look back. I left the bruised roses lying on the floor.

The walk home was a blur. The familiar streets of New York felt alien, the towering buildings like tombstones. I wasn't the same woman who had left our apartment an hour ago. She was gone forever.

I reached our front door and put the key in the lock. This wasn't my home anymore. It was a crime scene. And I was about to become a detective.