Chapter 2

My tears came back without warning. I twisted toward Vivienne's bed and screamed until my voice tore.

"Vivienne Ashton! How long are you going to keep pretending to sleep? Was it that good? Was sleeping with my husband really worth all of this?"

Vivienne opened her eyes. Her face was drained of color. She couldn't look at me.

She grabbed the pillow beside her and threw it at Ethan.

"How could you tell her? How could you hurt her like this?"

"I told you — I didn't want a title. I was going to leave after the baby came!"

Ethan caught her in his arms before she could move again, holding her too tightly, voice breaking apart at the edges.

"I couldn't let you leave. That's why I told her. Don't go, Vivienne. Please. Don't leave me."

"This is all my fault. Don't move, you'll tear your stitches—"

He'd said those exact words to me once.

I thought of what I knew about him. His mother had died when he was small. His father worked constantly. He'd been left alone with a housekeeper who, it turned out, was deeply disturbed — someone who hurt him in secret, over and over, for years.

I was ten years old when I kicked down his front door and found him half-dead on the kitchen floor. I dragged him out of that house and he never had to go back.

Later, when the housekeeper retaliated, she hired people to take me. Ethan had refused to let go of my hand while they beat him bloody. He held on until the adults came.

He stayed at my bedside in the hospital, unable to stop clinging to me even after we arrived.

*Don't leave me, Elara,* he kept saying, over and over.

The way he'd looked at me then — like I was the only real thing in his world.

He was looking at Vivienne the same way now.

I had once asked myself: if we ever fell apart, what would I do? I'd thought about it seriously.

My conclusion had been that I'd drag Vivienne to a bar, drink for three days straight, cry until I had nothing left, and then go back to loving him. Because that's how much I loved him.

But it was Vivienne.

Who was I supposed to call now?

Vivienne wrenched free of Ethan's arms and collapsed to her knees at the edge of my bed, tears pouring down her face.

"Elara, don't cry. I'll leave tomorrow. You two can go back to how you were."

I pressed my lips together. The ache in my chest was unbearable.

Vivienne had once been a girl from a wealthy family. At five years old, she was the only one who survived a car accident that took everyone else. Her relatives divided up the estate and dumped her in an orphanage, where she was bullied for years.

When we met, I begged my parents to take her in.

They loved her like a second daughter.

She had stood in front of her first birthday cake in our home and cried, and I'd laughed and told her: everything I have, I'll split with you. Half the good food. Half the good days. Half my parents' love.

She had taken the half of me I never offered.

"Get out," I said through my teeth. "I don't want to look at you. You're a liar and a homewrecker and I want you gone."

The babies startled at the noise and began to wail. I lifted my daughter and held her close, trying to soothe her through my own tears.

Vivienne buried her face in her hands, broken sounds coming out between her fingers. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry—"

Ethan's expression hardened. He picked up Vivienne's son, and when he turned to face me, his voice was controlled but cold.

"You have no idea how much Vivienne tried to protect you. She never wanted you hurt." He paused. "Vivienne was my fiancée first. She was the one I was always going to marry. That makes you the other woman — not her."

I stared at him.

He had told me his fiancée died in a car accident. He had said it to my face, with tears in his eyes. He and Vivienne had met in front of me dozens of times and pretended to barely tolerate each other. I had actually mediated their arguments. I had congratulated myself on finally getting two people I loved to get along.

I had been the fool the entire time.

I laughed. The kind of laugh that comes out with tears attached.

I reached over and tore the prayer beads from Vivienne's wrist. The string snapped. Beads scattered across the floor like broken teeth.

"These were mine," I said. "You don't deserve them. Neither of you do."

I held my daughter against my chest, stood up on legs that barely held me, and walked out.

Every step felt like walking on glass. The pain from my incision was extraordinary. I didn't slow down once.

Behind me, Vivienne was sobbing. Ethan was saying something cold and furious.

My phone buzzed.

*18 hours remaining.*

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