Chapter 3

I didn't reply to Ethan. I didn't shed another tear.

All the rage and grief seemed to have evaporated somewhere in that downpour, leaving behind only a hollow shell packed with cold, hardening hatred.

I walked into my bedroom and pulled open the closet door.

My clothes hung in a neat row. At the far end was a piece I'd treasured more than anything else — a Chanel haute couture dress. I'd bought it last year when I won the company's top sales award. A gift to myself for something I'd worked incredibly hard for.

Last week, it vanished. I tore the apartment apart looking for it, panicked and sweating, while Vivian said with a shrug: Haven't seen it. Maybe you put it somewhere and forgot.

Now it was hanging right there. Perfectly still, perfectly in place.

But at the neckline, there was the faintest trace of something I knew immediately — the cold cedar scent of the men's cologne Ethan always kept in his car.

I picked up my phone. My fingers pressed down so hard the blood left my fingertips. I opened a mutual friend's Instagram.

A post from three days ago. A grid of photos, captioned: Weekend yacht party — best time!!

In one of the group shots, Ethan and Vivian were standing side by side. Vivian's smile was radiant. She was wearing my Chanel dress — the one I'd been desperately searching for.

Ethan's arm was resting on the railing behind her in a way that looked casual but wasn't. It formed a loose circle around her, the kind of posture that says mine.

I zoomed in. Then zoomed in again until the image broke into pixels.

On Vivian's pale neck was a delicate white gold chain. The pendant was a small, simple star.

It was my mother's. The only thing she'd left behind. I kept it at the very bottom of my jewelry box like something sacred, too precious to ever wear.

A short, cold laugh came out of me. It sounded strange in the empty apartment.

My towel. My clothes. My mother's necklace. My man.

Vivian. You really outdid yourself.