Chapter 2

The next morning, I arrived at the conference room right on time.

The core Mindwell project team was all there.

So was Julia.

She sat directly to Andrew's right, looking sharp in a tailored outfit, with a media PR proposal laid out in front of her.

When she saw me, she stood up first and extended her hand. "Dr. Lane, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Her smile was polite and perfectly calibrated—not hostile, but her seat at the table spoke for itself.

I shook her hand. "Ms. Grant."

Once the meeting started, Andrew slid a new organizational chart across the table toward me. "Starting today, Julia will serve as the external head of the project. You'll step back to focus purely on technical support."

The conference room fell dead silent for a couple of seconds.

Some people kept their heads down, pretending to review documents. Others stole quiet glances at me.

I opened the file.

The title next to my name had been changed from "Lead Project Director" to "Medical Consultant."

Consultant.

Sounds nice.

Light enough, too.

It felt like a cheap consolation prize slapped on me after I had already done all the heavy lifting.

Andrew looked at me and added, "It's to avoid any appearance of conflict. As the lead physician on the project, you've had too much private contact with me, and people outside are already speculating. Julia is better suited to be the public face."

He spoke with complete composure, as if discussing a routine organizational tweak.

I closed the file and asked, "Is this a done deal, or are you asking for my input?"

Andrew's brows drew together slightly.

He probably thought I was being unusually difficult today. "Vivian, think of the bigger picture."

I nodded. "Alright."

It happened so fast that even he was caught off guard.

Julia glanced at me too.

They had both likely expected me to put up at least a bit of a fight.

I didn't.

On the spot, I forwarded the project's dedicated inbox, the level-two database passcodes, and all meeting permissions directly to Natalie and Legal.

Then I wiped all my personal annotations from my work computer.

I cleared the red flags, reset my custom keyboard shortcuts, and changed the backup password for the portal shared between the clinic and the project back to the system default.

Natalie rushed in with her laptop, her eyes brimming with tears. "Ms. Lane, isn't this the project you poured three years of your life into?"

I dropped the last USB drive into a document pouch. "It is. But now, I'm done pouring."

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Around noon, Andrew called me into his office.

The blinds were half-drawn, and two cups of coffee sat on his desk. One of them was a sugar-free latte, the kind I used to drink all the time.

He was clearly trying to ease the tension. "Is all this really necessary? Stripping the access levels like that—Natalie can't possibly handle it alone."

I placed the document pouch on the desk. "She can handle it. For anything beyond her scope, the step-by-step procedures are clearly outlined in the files."

He stared at me, a flicker of impatience finally surfacing in his eyes. "Vivian, what is wrong with you today?"

I looked back at him.

This was the same man who had picked up another woman at the airport last night, yet here he was, asking me what was wrong with me.

The absurdity of it suddenly hit me.

I didn't smile. "Nothing is wrong. I'm just doing what you asked—stepping back into the background."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I didn't ask you to throw a fit like this.

"Julia's return benefits the company. She has connections in overseas medical resources, and the board trusts her. You've always known how to handle things with discretion—don't start throwing a tantrum now."

A tantrum.

So signing the procedure consent form, handing over the project, and clearing my system permissions amounted to nothing more than a tantrum in his eyes.

I nodded. "Understood."

My reaction only seemed to frustrate him further. "We'll talk more when we get home tonight."

Home.

The word came out of his mouth so casually it felt surreal.

The penthouse apartment was under his name.

Half of the walk-in closet was filled with my clothes.

The bathroom held my favorite essential oils alongside his sedative sprays. And locked in the bottom drawer of the nightstand was our marriage certificate.

Yet in all these three years, I had never once been called "Mrs. Hughes" in public.