Chapter 3

Summer's POV

By the time the gala ended, it was deep into the night.

I was in the flower shop reconciling the last of the accounts when the rain outside picked up. Hard, driving rain. The kind New York gets in late autumn, cold straight through to the bone.

A black Maybach pulled up in front of the shop.

The window slid down, and there was Ethan: sharp jaw, frost-cut features, expression carved from stone.

"Get in."

It was a command. No room for question.

I stood under the awning, watching the car through the rain, and didn't move.

In the old days, I would have run to that car without a second thought. Just sitting in the passenger seat, watching him from across the console, that alone would have felt like happiness.

Now I just felt tired.

"I'll get a cab."

My voice came out even.

Ethan's brow pulled tight. Impatience flickered across his eyes.

"Summer, I don't have time for this. Get in the car."

I looked at him quietly for a moment. Something about it almost made me laugh.

A tantrum? In his mind, I didn't even have the right to be hurt. Every emotion I had was just making a scene.

I opened my umbrella and walked straight to the curb, flagging down a passing cab.

Ethan watched the taxi pull away. His expression darkened like a storm rolling in.

He pressed the accelerator and followed.

By the time I got back to the house, I was soaked through.

I walked past Ethan, who was already sitting on the couch radiating cold fury, and went straight upstairs to shower and change.

When I came back down, towel-drying my hair, he was standing with a glass of water, watching me with that familiar icy stare.

"Would you care to explain that little performance at the office today?"

He opened with an attack. His tone carried the weight of someone who'd already decided he was in the right.

I paused, then met his eyes. "I'm just the florist. Who exactly do you think I was performing for?"

Ethan's expression shifted.

"Wendy just got back. She's not stable right now. She's been through trauma. I was only comforting her. Stop making this into something it isn't."

"Comforting her?"

A short, quiet laugh escaped me. Nothing warm in it.

"Ethan, weren't you the one with severe haphephobia? Weren't you the one who used hand sanitizer three times if I accidentally brushed your sleeve?"

Ethan's face changed. He'd been hit somewhere real. He shot to his feet.

"Summer! What exactly are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying your condition is apparently very selective."

I held his gaze. Every word deliberate.

"You don't have a problem with being touched. You just find me repulsive. Isn't that right?"

"Shut up!"

Ethan's voice cracked through the room. His chest heaved.

"Wendy is different. She's sick!"

"I'm a living person too!"

My voice rose to meet his.

"Ethan, for five years I treated you like something sacred. You hated mess, so I cleaned this house three times a day. You couldn't stand being touched, so I made myself small enough that I barely existed near you. I thought you were sick. I felt sorry for you. But you, you gave every last bit of warmth you had to her, and left nothing for me but cold shoulders and locked doors."

The room went dead quiet.

Ethan looked at me.

"Calm down."

His voice slid back into its usual detachment.

"Wendy and I are just friends. If you insist on being this unreasonable about it, I don't know what to tell you."

He turned and walked into the study. The door clicked shut.

I stood there staring at that closed door until the last of my energy drained away.

Unreasonable.

Five years of my life, and that's what I got in return. Unreasonable.

You can't wake someone who's pretending to sleep. And you can't warm a heart that was never open to you.

I turned and went back to my room.

It was quiet in there. Sparse. No sign that Ethan had ever set foot inside.

He never did. He said I had a smell he couldn't stand.

I sat down at the desk and opened my laptop. I created a new document.

The sound of keystrokes was sharp in the silence.

Divorce Agreement.

I typed the words. My fingertips were trembling slightly.

Under the asset division section, I wrote: No claims. I leave with nothing.

I hadn't married him for money. And now that I was letting him go, I didn't want any of it.

The printer whirred. Two thin pages slid out.

I picked up a pen. In the space marked Wife's Signature, I signed my name without hesitating.

Every stroke of every letter cut through five years of blind, stubborn hope.

Ethan. You're free now. So am I.