Chapter 4

I took Leo and stayed at my penthouse for the next two weeks. Ethan didn't bother checking in, assuming I was merely throwing a tantrum.

He thought he knew me inside and out. To him, Clara Vance was always composed, rational, pragmatic, and emotionally bulletproof. He figured I just needed time to "process."

Oh, I processed it, all right. I decided to process him out of my life.

While he was aggressively rushing pre-production on his little vanity project, I was working around the clock with my legal team, drafting airtight divorce papers.

Twelve years of intertwined corporate empires meant an enormous division of assets.

Before I even had the chance to break the news to my parents, my mother’s call came through.

"Clara," my mother’s voice trembled with fury and sorrow, "are you really that in love with Ethan? Why haven’t you served him papers yet? No daughter of the Vance family is going to be humiliated like this!"

"Your father and I are behind you. One hundred percent!"

I hadn't shed a single tear since the news broke. I had kept my cool while calming my terrified assistant, comforting my sobbing son, and even confronting the snooty preschool director who let rumors run wild among the parents.

Yet hearing my mother's fierce protection broke the dam.

Tears spilled silently down my cheeks. Over the phone, two women wept together.

"I’m divorcing him, Mom."

"Good. Remember this: as long as your father and I are breathing, you have an army behind you."

"I know," I whispered, wiping my eyes.

Memories flooded back.

The truth was, I had loved Ethan Sterling deeply for most of my life. But that love belonged to the past.

Our families were close. Growing up, I was the awkward little girl trailing behind him, calling him my hero.

In middle school, I went through a brutal puberty phase. My skin broke out into terrible cystic acne, and the wealthy, cruel private school kids labeled me the "Monster."

A Vance heiress wasn't supposed to take abuse lying down, but whenever I lashed out with my fists, the bullying only grew worse.

My notebooks were shredded. Sticky, disgusting liquids were poured into my locker. Rumors followed me down every hallway.

And then, Ethan arrived like a savior.

He was the golden boy of the high school division—gorgeous, top athlete, student council president.

When he kicked open my classroom door, punched the ringleader in the jaw, and warned everyone to back off, I looked at him as if he were God himself.

He slung an arm around my trembling shoulders and snarled at the crowd: “She’s under my protection. Anyone who touches her answers to me.”

I had analyzed that sentence in my diary ten thousand times.

He didn't say, “She’s my sister,” or “She’s my family friend.” He said, “She’s mine to protect.”

Did that mean... I was his?

At thirty-four years old, I finally had the answer: No. I wasn't.

My parents sent me to boarding school in Switzerland right after middle school, hoping European boarding schools would rebuild my confidence and the fresh air would heal my skin.

Because of that, I missed the entire year he fell in love with his college tutor.

By the time I returned, the ripple had long settled, leaving no trace on the surface of the lake.

Years abroad made me confident, sharp, and self-assured.

Yet whenever I stood before Ethan, an invisible wire pulled taut in my chest. I measured every word, terrified of saying the wrong thing.

Even when he proposed, promising he loved me, I remained polite and composed. He always praised me for being remarkably mature and low-maintenance.

It wasn't maturity. It was fear. I loved him so deeply that I couldn't bear the thought of petty arguments chipping away at our foundation. So I settled for respectful, tranquil companionship.

I had believed in quiet, unshakeable stability.

Turns out, things handled with too much caution are simply too fragile to survive.