Chapter 2

The next morning, I stood outside the penthouse door, key in hand, hesitating. I needed to collect more of my belongings, but the thought of seeing Travis again made my stomach twist into knots. Taking a deep breath, I slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open.

I froze in the entryway. The apartment looked... different. The throw pillows I'd carefully selected were rearranged, my favorite orchid moved from its spot near the window. But what caught my eye and sent ice through my veins were the photos—all our photos were gone, replaced by images of Travis and Fiona from years ago. College snapshots, vacation memories, moments from a past I'd never been part of.

"Oh! You're here."

Fiona's voice, dripping with false sweetness, came from the kitchen. She emerged wearing one of Travis's shirts, her hair artfully tousled as if she'd just rolled out of bed.

"I didn't expect you so early," she said, smiling. "Travis just left for work."

I ignored her, moving toward the bedroom to pack more of my things. Fiona followed, hovering in the doorway as I pulled open drawers.

"Let me help you pack," she offered, reaching for one of my silk scarves. "It must be so difficult, realizing you were just... temporary."

I snatched the scarf from her hands. "Don't touch my things."

"Sorry," she said, not looking sorry at all. "I'm just trying to help clear out the old to make room for the new. Or should I say, the original?"

As I moved to the living room to collect some books, a shattering crash made me turn. Fiona stood over the broken pieces of my hand-blown glass vase—a piece I'd bought in Venice during a rare vacation with Travis.

"Oops," she said, eyes wide with mock concern. "It was an accident. These things happen when you're... reclaiming your rightful place."

I knelt to pick up a large shard, my fingers trembling. The vase was irreplaceable, but it was just a thing. What hurt more was how easily my existence was being erased, how quickly Travis had allowed another woman to infiltrate the life we'd built together.

"You know," Fiona continued, perching on the arm of the sofa, "Travis and I always planned to live here together. He designed this place with me in mind."

I looked up at her, suddenly seeing through the game. "Is that why he chose all the furniture I picked out? Why the kitchen is designed exactly how I wanted it?"

A flash of irritation crossed her face before she recovered. "He was just placating you. Keeping you happy until I came back."

I stood, dropping the glass shard into a waste bin. "You're welcome to him, Fiona. And to the fantasy you've created."

I left with my suitcase that day and checked into The Archer, a luxury hotel downtown. The suite was impersonal but peaceful—no memories, no ghosts of a relationship built on sand. I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed and finally let myself cry, truly cry, for the first time since seeing that video.

When the tears subsided, I opened my laptop and pulled up a folder labeled "Webb Enterprises - Financial Records." Travis might have forgotten who helped build his empire, but I hadn't. Every loan, every investment, every family connection I'd leveraged—I had documented it all. Three million dollars of my own money had gone into saving his company during its darkest hour.

I reached for my phone and called Rebecca Martinez, my family's lawyer.

"Rebecca? It's Elianna Coleman. I need your help with something... complicated."

The next three days passed in a blur. I called in sick to work—something I'd never done before, not even when I had pneumonia last winter. I met with Rebecca, forwarded her my meticulous financial records, and began the process of disentangling my life from Travis's.

On the third night, I dragged myself to my family's weekly dinner, hoping to maintain some semblance of normalcy. I pushed food around my plate, barely tasting anything.

"Elianna?" My brother's voice cut through my thoughts. "You've hardly said a word all evening."

"I'm just tired," I said, attempting a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"Where's Travis?" my mother asked. "He usually never misses family dinner."

"He's... busy with old friends," I replied vaguely, unable to force out the truth.

My brother's eyes narrowed, studying my hollow expression and the mechanical way I lifted my fork. He didn't press further, but I felt his concern like a physical touch.

Later, as I was leaving, he pulled me aside in the hallway.

"Whatever it is," he said quietly, "you don't have to face it alone."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and hurried to my waiting taxi before he could see the tears threatening to fall again.