Chapter 2

Three years ago, we'd only been married a year.

One of Julian's friends held a birthday party at a hillside villa with an outdoor pool. The music was deafening, and the air was saturated with champagne, desire, and the sharp tang of chlorine.

I was wearing a blazing red spaghetti strap dress, weaving through the crowd like a fire, searching for Julian.

Then, in the shadows at the farthest edge of the pool, I spotted him.

He was pulling a bikini-clad young model close, leaning in for a deep kiss. Her arms twined around his neck, bold and intimate. The water rippled, mirroring their tangled bodies.

In that moment, I felt every drop of blood surge straight to my head. My sanity snapped with a loud, final twang.

Without a word, I snatched the biggest piece of tiramisu from a waiter's tray, marched over, and, right in front of that model's terrified eyes, smashed the entire cake, cream, and cocoa powder included, onto her meticulously styled curls.

Her shriek tore through the pounding music like a knife.

Julian shoved her away, spun around, and when he saw me, there was no guilt, just a hint of excitement tangled with irritation on his face. "Scarlett, are you losing it again?"

"Me? Losing it?" I was shaking with rage, jabbing a finger at him, my voice so sharp it could cut through the crowd. "Julian! Do you think I'm invisible? You're here hooking up with this nobody, and you think I'm losing it?"

Our fight instantly became the center of attention. Everyone crowded around, pointing, whispering, and gawking.

I was like a raging bull, bristling with anger, and he was the matador, relishing every second of pushing me over the edge.

When we got back to our place, that was when the real war kicked off.

I smashed every crystal glass in his study, then poured out every bottle of his prized Scotch, each one he'd snatched at some high-end Scottish auction, straight down the toilet. The amber liquid flushed away, just like all our laughable promises.

Julian just stood there, arms crossed, watching me with icy indifference. The fire in his eyes wasn't anger. It was the thrill of conquest. He loved seeing me go wild for him. It fed his warped sense of charm and superiority.

Julian grabbed my hand as I raised another bottle, sneering, "Are you done with your drama?"

I yanked free, stormed out of the villa, and jumped into my red Ferrari.

The engine roared as I floored it through the pouring rain, ramming right into his ultra-rare Lamborghini Aventador parked in the driveway.

The thunderous impact and the sound of glass shattering echoed like a wild, tragic requiem for our marriage.

The steam from the smashed hood mixed with the rain, making everything a blur.

Julian's expression finally shifted. He rushed out, not to see if I was okay, but to cradle his mangled Lamborghini, mourning it like it was the only thing that mattered.

Right then, I felt completely dead inside.

I got out of the car and hurled the divorce papers I'd been holding onto straight at his rain-soaked chest. "Julian, it's over."

When I signed the papers, I pressed down so hard with that expensive Montblanc pen that I nearly broke the damn thing.

The three months after my divorce were the most exhilarating and yet the most hollow period of my life.

I flew overseas for fashion shows, went on shopping sprees, and splurged at nightclubs.

I tried to fill the emptiness inside me with the most extravagant experiences, but it was like a black hole, swallowing everything and leaving nothing behind but a deeper loneliness.

I still loved Julian. The realization made me loathe myself.