Chapter 3

The next morning, the confrontation happened faster than I expected.

I was sitting at the kitchen island, drinking my coffee, when Ethan stormed through the front door. His car keys dropped heavily onto the counter. His jaw was tight, and his eyes were dark with irritation.

"Avery," Ethan said, his voice sharp. "The wedding venue called me. They said our reception was canceled."

Mia and Lily were in the living room.

Mia stopped playing with her daughter and looked over, her expression carefully neutral, though a flicker of satisfaction crossed her eyes.

I set my coffee mug down. The porcelain made a soft click against the marble.

"I canceled it," I said.

Ethan stared at me, as if he expected me to laugh or admit it was a joke.

When I didn't, his frustration turned into a cold, patronizing sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Are you still doing this?" Ethan asked. "Because I missed the date on Monday? I told you, Avery, Mia and Lily needed help. I promised we would reschedule. Why are you punishing everyone over a delayed afternoon?"

He didn't think I was leaving.

He thought I was throwing a tantrum, throwing a wrench into his plans just to force him to apologize.

"I am not punishing anyone," I replied, my voice level.

Ethan shook his head. He walked up to me and placed his hands firmly on my shoulders, looking down into my eyes.

"Listen to me," Ethan said. "Saturday morning at nine. City Hall. We are going to get it done."

He listed his conditions, ticking them off on his fingers, completely unaware of how absurd they sounded.

Mia and Lily would attend the registry office with us.

I had to stop showing hostility toward them.

After we married, if Mia had problems, he would still help her whenever she called.

I was not allowed to bring up his absences anymore.

Lily would continue to call him Daddy.

"Once we have the certificate, everything goes back to normal," Ethan concluded. "You get what you want. Mia gets stability. Everyone is happy."

It was a masterclass in delusion.

He was offering me a marriage built on my own erasure.

He expected me to sign away my dignity, play stepmother to another man's child, and share my husband with his first love, all while feeling grateful for the privilege.

Three years ago, I would have cried.

I would have argued, begged him to see my side, and eventually compromised until there was nothing left of me.

"Saturday at nine," I repeated quietly.

Ethan smiled, satisfied that his authority had won.

"See? I knew you'd be reasonable. Don't be late."

He kissed the top of my head and turned to join Mia in the living room, completely missing the look in my eyes.

A few minutes later, the real estate agent called.

One of the cash buyers had accepted the asking price without conditions. They were prepared to close on Saturday morning.

I signed the sales contract electronically and returned it before Ethan noticed anything.

For eight years, I had mistaken endurance for love. I would not make that mistake again.

That evening, while Ethan and Mia talked downstairs, I walked into the bedroom and zipped up my final suitcase.

The room no longer held anything that belonged to me.

None of my clothes remained in the closet. None of my photographs remained on the nightstand.

The house was under contract.

On Saturday morning, the sale would become final.

My phone buzzed on the bed.

It was a text message from Ethan, sent from downstairs:

Saturday. Nine o’clock. City hall. Don’t be late.

I stared at the screen for a long moment. A faint, cold smile touched my lips.

I tapped out a reply and hit send:

I’ll be there.