Chapter 2

"Ma'am, your key fob access was deactivated this morning."

The concierge at my luxury apartment building stopped me, flipping through his logbook.

"The primary owner filed the request. Mr. Vance said... you are no longer a resident of this building."

I stood in the lobby. The chilly May evening breeze blew in through the automatic doors.

My phone rang. It was Lacey.

"Chloe, sweetie, did you just get back to the building?"

She sounded as sweet as a best friend.

"I’m so sorry about this. Ethan said you two need some space, so he asked me to help pack up your things."

"Everything is boxed up and stored in the basement locker. You can just grab it directly from the front desk."

I was silent for two seconds.

"Are you in my apartment?"

"Yeah. Ethan asked me to move in temporarily to make working together easier."

I heard her rustling through some hangers on her end.

"Oh, by the way, Chloe, that camel cashmere coat in your closet—what brand is it? I couldn't find the tag."

"Ethan said you bought it yourself, so it wasn’t a gift from him—which means I don’t mind borrowing it for a couple of days."

I hung up, went down to the basement, and retrieved my things.

Eight cardboard boxes were piled in the corner of the storage locker. Two of them were crushed.

I opened the top one. Right on top was our framed wedding photo. The glass was shattered, the shards piercing into the printed faces of Ethan and me standing side-by-side.

Below it were a few pieces of clothing Lacey hadn't bothered to steal.

The second box contained my work files.

But something was missing. My blue leather journal.

The development log for Project Three. Handwritten. The very first page held the first line of pseudo-code I had written in my dorm room eight years ago.

That journal was the ultimate proof of who created the technology.

It wasn't in any of the boxes.

I called Ethan.

"Where is my development log? The blue leather one."

"What log?" his voice was completely indifferent.

"Project Three. My handwritten notes, from the first architectural sketches to—"

"No idea. Ask Lacey."

"Ethan, that log is the source of all the company's IP!"

"It’s just an old notebook. Who cares if it’s lost? Can you stop being so paranoid all the time?"

He hung up.

I stood in the dim locker room, staring at the eight cardboard boxes.

Eight years of my life, packed into eight boxes. And two of them were crushed.

I called an Uber to take the boxes to a boutique hotel. When I tried to swipe my credit card at check-in, it was declined.

I called the bank.

"Ma'am, your status as an authorized user on this account was revoked by the primary cardholder this morning."

I handed the receptionist my personal debit card.

"Ma'am, a large transfer was made from this account today. Your balance is insufficient."

"A transfer? I didn't authorize that."

"According to our records, the transaction was initiated by the joint-account holder..."

I closed my eyes.

The joint-account holder was Ethan.

Years ago, he told me it would make managing our household expenses easier, so I signed the authorization.

Just like that power of attorney for my shares, I had signed whatever he put in front of me.

Because I trusted him.

I sat in the hotel lobby for a long time. Eventually, Parker wired me some money.

"Chloe, use this for now. Please don't be polite with me."

"I won't be," I said, taking my new room key. "When this is over, I'll pay you back double."

"Chloe—"

"Parker."

"Yeah?"

"That severance agreement they gave you? Don't sign it."