Chapter 2

Aimee Ramirez POV:

I drove back to the house we had built together, the one Kyle still called "our home." The word was a lie. Every corner of the sprawling minimalist mansion now felt tainted, a museum of a life that had never been real.

The framed photo on the mantelpiece caught my eye. It was from the day we launched our first app, our faces flushed with victory and cheap champagne. We were so young, so full of belief. A guttural sob tore from my throat, and my hand shot out, sweeping the silver frame to the floor. The glass shattered, a sound that echoed the breaking in my own chest.

I moved through the house like a storm, a whirlwind of grief and fury. His ridiculously expensive watch collection, a gift from me, was scattered across the marble floor. The first-edition books he cherished were ripped from their shelves. Every object that represented our shared history became a target for my pain.

When Kyle finally returned hours later, he found me sitting amidst the wreckage, a ghost in our ruined palace. He stopped short, his face a mask of disbelief and anger.

"What the hell did you do, Aimee?"

I just stared at him, my mind a numb, buzzing void. The fight had drained out of me, leaving only a hollow ache.

He sighed, running a hand through his perfect hair, his anger quickly morphing into condescending pity. "Look, I know this is a shock. You're emotional. I get it." He stepped over a shattered vase. "But destroying property isn't going to solve anything. This is still our life."

"I'm leaving," I said, the words barely a whisper.

"Don't be ridiculous. Where would you go?"

"Anywhere but here."

He considered this for a moment, his mind already calculating, strategizing. "Fine. If you need space, take the beach house in Malibu. The press will think we're just having a trial separation. It' s better for the company' s image."

The company. It was always about the company. The thought of my seventy-year-old mother, whose fragile health couldn' t handle a scandal, flashed through my mind. For her sake, I had to play his game, just for a little while.

"Fine," I agreed, my voice flat.

The drive to Malibu was a blur. The Pacific Ocean stretched out beside me, vast and indifferent. The beach house was our first major purchase, a symbol of our success. Now, it was to be my gilded cage.

As I stepped inside, a cloying, unfamiliar perfume hit me. It was sweet and cheap, a scent that clung to the air like a disease. My eyes landed on the coffee table. A half-empty glass of rosé, a lipstick stain on its rim. On the sofa, a cashmere throw I didn't recognize was draped carelessly.

Everywhere I looked, there were signs of her. Karma. A pair of stiletto heels kicked off by the door. A glossy magazine open to a page about celebrity baby bumps. She hadn't just been in his bed; she had been in our life, our home, for how long? A wave of nausea so powerful it buckled my knees washed over me. I stumbled to the bathroom, my stomach heaving, expelling the anniversary dinner that had turned to poison inside me.

Kyle arrived later, finding me on the veranda, staring blankly at the waves. I had opened every window, desperate to air out the suffocating scent of her, but it was useless. It was in the walls.

"She was here for a work retreat last month," he said, his voice devoid of apology. "I should have had the place cleaned."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I turned up the volume on my phone, letting a random playlist of angry rock music blast through the speakers, a futile attempt to drown out the sound of my world collapsing.

And then I heard it. Through the music, coming from his phone which he' d left on the table. A soft, giggling voice.

"I miss you, Ky. The baby misses you too. He keeps kicking, right where your hand was this morning."

My blood ran cold. He? She knew it was a boy. They had a life, a secret world where they talked about their son's kicks. It wasn' t a fling. It was a replacement. I was being replaced.

Kyle finally noticed my stillness and walked over, his face a mask of strained patience. "Aimee, we need to talk about this rationally."

I turned my back on him, walking to the edge of the deck, the sea spray cold on my face.

He followed, his voice insistent. "This doesn't have to be the end. It's just a detour."

I kept my eyes on the horizon, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. Distracted, frustrated, he glanced down at his phone to text her back. He was so consumed by his new life that he didn't see the patch of spilled rosé on the deck.

His expensive leather shoe slipped. He stumbled backward, his arms flailing, and crashed into the heavy glass table where we used to have breakfast.

The world exploded in a shower of sound and pain.

I felt a searing heat slice across my arm. Something warm and wet was running down my skin. I looked down. A large shard of the shattered tabletop was embedded in my forearm. The champagne bucket, a gift from our wedding, had been launched by the impact, hitting my head with a sickening thud.

The world tilted, the beautiful sunset turning into a dark, swirling vortex.

The last thing I heard before the blackness swallowed me was Kyle' s voice, raw with a panic that sounded terrifyingly real.

"Aimee! Oh God, Aimee!"