Chapter 3

By the time I returned to the master bedroom, Julian was already asleep. His breathing was slow and steady.

In the soft glow of the bedside lamp, his face looked as calm.

Beside his pillow lay his personal phone, still plugged into the charger.

I crossed the room as quietly as I could.

My heart pounded so hard it hurt, every beat echoed in my ears.

Months ago, I had accidentally caught a glimpse of Julian entering his passcode.

Back then, I had immediately pushed the memory aside out of absolute trust.

But tonight, guided by that buried memory, my trembling fingers tapped the numbers into the screen.

The screen lit up.

Without hesitation, I opened his chat with Chloe.

Chloe: Julian, the Diana's Dream collection is incredible. If I make it my headline collection, it'll steal the show.

Julian: Of course you can, babe. But you'll need to tweak a few details. If you release it exactly as it is, Evelina will recognize it immediately. We can't let her figure it out.

Chloe: What? Are you actually worried about her? You practically pushed her out of the company in front of everyone tonight.

Julian: I'm not worried about her. I just don't need the headache. Just do what I said. Once this collection is a hit, your position as partner will be untouchable. By the time she figures it out, it won't matter anymore.

Chloe: Okay, okay. I'll do it your way. But after the launch, you owe me a proper celebration.

Julian: Deal, babe. I'll make sure it's a night you'll never forget.

As I watched them casually plot how to steal my designs and my career, I fought back the wave of nausea rising in my throat.

I switched my phone to silent and photographed every single message.

I wasn't going to miss a single piece of evidence.

For the next two weeks, I played the part of the broken wife.

The woman who had lost everything.

The woman who had finally given up.

I spent more and more time in bed.

I even told Julian I never wanted to hear another word about the company.

Every morning, he'd kiss my forehead, gently remind me to take care of myself, and leave the house with an unmistakable spring in his step.

Everything appeared perfectly normal.

At least that's what he thought.

On Wednesday, Croft unveiled its new collection at one of Manhattan's most exclusive exhibition venues.

Julian had invited virtually every major media outlet in the city.

Under the glare of the spotlights, Chloe stood confidently before the giant screen, dressed in a sharply tailored white pantsuit.

Behind her, the promotional film for Glimmer played across the massive LED display.

"This collection is my deepest reflection on the relationship between space and life."

She smiled gracefully into the cameras.

Every word sounded as though she'd created the collection herself.

Standing in the front row, Julian was the first to applaud.

His eyes never left Chloe.

There was pride in his eyes.

Control.

Vanity.

And beneath it all is a twisted kind of exhilaration.

The launch was a phenomenal success.

From an unnoticed corner of the showroom, I watched them bask in the applause that should have been mine.

By evening, glowing reviews from the press and praise from Wall Street investors were flooding Croft's official website.

Julian's reputation soared to new heights within the industry.

And Chloe Dupont had officially secured her place as Croft's newest partner.

A text from Julian popped up on my screen.

"We've got a company celebration tonight, so I'll be home late. Sweetheart, you're still recovering. Don't wait up. Love you."

I didn't reply.

Instead, I sat behind the wheel of a rental sedan I'd picked up that afternoon, parked quietly near the exit of the hotel's underground garage.

At eleven o'clock sharp, Julian's black Maybach finally rolled out.

Chloe was sitting in the passenger seat.

I waited until they were a safe distance ahead before pulling out to follow them.

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel, my heart pounded so violently it was hard to breathe.

This was the last desperate struggle of a wife walking toward the grave of her ten-year marriage.

Over the past two weeks, I'd quietly investigated everything Julian had been hiding from me.

His dealings with Chloe, his stolen designs, and his web of lies.

I already had the evidence.

But there was one truth I still couldn't bring myself to accept.

His betrayal. I had to see it with my own eyes.

Please, Julian.

Don't make this real, don't make me lose the last reason I have to believe in us.

I repeated the silent prayer over and over.

It was the last hope I had left for the man I'd loved for ten years.

But fate wasn't listening.

The Maybach pulled into an upscale loft complex.

I parked across the street, hidden in the shadows.

Ten minutes later, a warm light flickered on in one of the apartments.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, two figures came into view.

They hadn't even bothered to close the curtains.

Julian slipped his arms around Chloe from behind—the exact same way he'd held me countless times in our bedroom back in Long Island.

He lowered his head and kissed the side of her neck.

Chloe smiled, turned in his arms, and wrapped both hands around his neck as she kissed him back.

In that moment, I heard something inside me shatter.

It wasn't just my trust.

It was every ounce of love, every dream, every shred of dignity I'd poured into the last ten years.

My hands trembled as I reached for the camera on the passenger seat and lifted the telephoto lens toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Through the viewfinder, I saw Julian's face.

He was smiling.

Not the gentle, composed smile he'd always worn for me, but one filled with reckless desire and exhilaration.

He and Chloe were wrapped around each other.

I didn't say a word, just kept pressing the shutter.

Every crisp click of the shutter felt like a bullet, accurately executing the foolish girl I used to be.

The tears finally came.

A tear finally spilled over, but the moment it tracked down my cheek, the searing hatred erupting from my heart scorched it away.

I packed up my camera, ready to crank the engine and leave this wretched place behind.

A sudden, soft tap closely followed against the passenger window.

Knock, knock.

My head snapped around on pure instinct.

Standing beneath the pale glow of the streetlamp was a little boy, no older than six or seven.

He was dressed in an impeccably tailored cashmere suit.

He looked at me with open defiance.