Chapter 2
The champagne flute in Ryan’s hand glints beneath the chandelier as he whispers something that makes Victoria blush. My anniversary dress suddenly feels ridiculous—a costume for a role I didn’t audition for.
I clear my throat. Conversations die. Heads turn. Ryan’s spine stiffens as he glances over his shoulder, Victoria’s manicured hand still clutching his sleeve.
“Sarah.” His tone could frost the glass separating us. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“Isn’t it?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Our anniversary, Ryan. You forgot.”
His jaw works. Behind him, Victoria’s lips curl into a practiced pout. “I’m so sorry,” she says, though the words are clearly for him. “I didn’t realize tonight was—”
“Not your fault,” Ryan snaps, not looking at me. “You were invited. Sarah knows that.”
Knows what? That his childhood sweetheart’s return after four years in Paris takes precedence over our vows? That the wife he promised “forever” should step aside for the girl he used to sneak out of his parents’ townhouse to meet?
I grip the doorframe. “Ryan—”
“Later.” He doesn’t turn. “We’ll discuss this at home.”
The word *home* cracks something inside me. I picture our apartment—the one I spent all day transforming into a shrine to our love—and suddenly can’t breathe.
“Sure,” I say, quieter now. “Can’t wait.”
As I retreat down the stairs, their laughter resumes. I catch a snippet of Victoria’s coo—“Poor thing, she’s always been so dramatic”—before the door clicks shut.
The taxi ride home blurs. I find myself staring at the receipt for the roses, wondering how long he’s been lying. Six months? A year? Or since the day I walked away from my architecture degree to become his human calculator and emotional crutch?
The door opens before I can fish out my keys. Ryan stands there in his tuxedo, Victoria hovering behind him like some ghostly bridesmaid.
“I’ll need my things,” she says, voice trembling. “Just for a little while. I promise.”
“Of course.” Ryan steps aside, ushering her into the living room I’d spent all morning arranging. His eyes meet mine, hard and unyielding. “Vic’s staying with us. Temporarily.”
My bag slips from my fingers. “What?”
“She’s got nowhere else to go,” Ryan says, shrugging off his jacket. “Her family’s situation is...complicated.”
Victoria’s already begun boxing my framed sketches—designs I’d spent years perfecting. “Oh, look at this!” She holds up a watercolor of the Brooklyn Bridge I’d drawn during our first date. “How quaint!”
“Put that back,” I snap.
Her bottom lip quivers. “I’m just trying to help, Sarah. You’re being awfully hostile.”
Ryan steps between us. “Enough.” His fingers dig into my shoulders. “You’ll be understanding. For me.”
I stare up at him, searching for the man who once kissed me under that bridge, who promised to build his empire for *us*. Instead, I find a stranger with cold, calculating eyes.
“Or?” I whisper.
His thumb brushes my jaw. “If you can’t accept Victoria as my wife’s friend...then maybe we should separate.”
The world tilts.
*Separate*.
We’ve never even had a real fight. He’s never raised his voice, never slept on the couch. Now, he’s suggesting...what? Divorce? Because his childhood sweetheart needs a place to crash?
Victoria’s gasp echoes behind me. “Oh no, Ryan, I didn’t mean to cause trouble—”
“You didn’t,” he says, cutting her off. “This is long overdue.”
The next morning, my phone blares with an unknown number. Ryan’s voice, clipped and businesslike, demands my presence at Sterling Enterprises.
I arrive late, my fingers still shaking from the Uber ride. The conference room falls silent as I enter. Ryan stands at the head of the table, Victoria perched on the corner of his desk like a favored cat.
“Sarah.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Join us.”
The room spins as he gestures to an empty chair. “As you all know, Victoria Hayes has been a close family friend for years. Given her extensive background in—”
“Parisian fashion and parties,” I interrupt, my voice hoarse.
Ryan’s jaw clenches. “—fashion and design,” he continues, “I’m pleased to announce her appointment as our new Creative Director.”
Applause erupts.
I sink into the nearest chair, my knees buckling beneath the weight of his betrayal. Across the room, Victoria beams, her hand brushing Ryan’s as she accepts the congratulations of our staff.
“Well deserved,” Ryan says, his gaze never leaving her face. “I trust her fresh vision.”
My pen snaps.
Somewhere in the chaos, I hear my own voice—small, broken. “What about me?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “Your role will be reassigned.”
The room tilts. Six years of late nights and sacrificed dreams, reduced to a single sentence.
“Their jobs depend on this transition going smoothly,” Ryan adds, his tone leaving no room for argument.
As Victoria begins her acceptance speech, I find myself standing, my legs carrying me toward the exit without permission.
Behind me, Ryan calls out. “Sarah—”
I don’t look back.