Chapter 2

After the gala, I returned to the townhouse in Midtown.

This property was the wedding residence Grandpa had prepared for me. For the past few years, Julian had been the one living in it.

I gathered the business documents from the marble coffee table, preparing to move out for good.

The private elevator chimed open.

Julian stumbled in, reeking of alcohol and Cynthia's signature Jo Malone perfume.

He yanked his collar open roughly and threw his suit jacket onto the leather sofa with a heavy thud.

"What exactly was that about tonight?" He walked up to me, his frame completely blocking the overhead light.

I placed the last document into my briefcase. "Nothing in particular. I just told the truth."

"Told the truth?" He let out a cold laugh, voice thick with derision. "Cynthia just thought the dog was cute! Did you have to embarrass her in front of all those socialites?"

Julian lit a cigar.

"Do you have any idea how long she cried tonight? She keeps blaming herself! She says it's her fault you were unhappy at your own birthday party!"

I looked him dead in the eye. "Julian, it was *my* birthday gala."

"So what?" He exhaled a plume of blue-gray smoke. "You're the Claire heiress—you have everything! Cynthia only has me! I was just trying to make her happy. Do you really have to be this petty about it?"

At that moment, the door swung open.

Cynthia walked in wearing Julian's shirt from earlier that day.

Her eyes were rimmed red.

"Julian, please don't fight with Sarah because of me."

She tugged at his sleeve, voice choked with tears. "It's my fault… I shouldn't have said the tie was pretty. I've just never seen haute couture embroidery before…"

Julian immediately took her hand, interlacing their fingers, and fixed me with an icy stare.

"Did you hear that, Sarah? Even now, she's still thinking of *you*!"

Looking at their tightly clasped hands, I was suddenly struck by how absurd my six years of devotion had been.

"There's a whole stack of ties in the walk-in closet—all gifts I gave you over the years. Feel free to take every last one and put them on her dog. And this townhouse—consider it yours. Both of you can have it."

Julian stiffened for a moment, then scoffed.

"Sarah, you're pulling the running-away-from-home stunt again to threaten me? Let me remind you—last time, you came back *crying* and *begging* me to let you stay."

Cynthia lowered her head, the corner of her mouth curling into a smug little smile where she thought I couldn't see.

"Sarah, please don't be angry. I'll leave right now…" She made a show of rushing toward the door, but as she passed the coffee table, she "accidentally" caught its edge.

"Ah!" She let herself tumble forward, falling neatly into Julian's arms.

Julian caught her, then wheeled on me with a snarl. "Why is this coffee table sticking out so far? You did that on purpose!"

That Italian marble table weighed several hundred pounds. It hadn't moved an inch since the day it was delivered.

I couldn't even be bothered to explain.

Julian lowered Cynthia tenderly onto the sofa, half-kneeling to examine her knee.

There was barely a faint red mark.

"I'll get an ice pack." Julian stood. As he passed me, he slammed his shoulder hard into mine.

I was wearing heels. The impact knocked me off balance, and I fell uncontrollably toward the wooden cabinet beside me.

The corner of my forehead smashed against the cabinet's hard, sharp edge.

Warm liquid ran swiftly down my brow bone, blurring my vision.

Julian paused, glanced back.

"Quit the act." He frowned, nothing in his eyes but irritation. "I barely touched you. Is that really enough to draw blood? Go get Cynthia an ice pack—her knee matters a hell of a lot more than you."

I pressed my hand to my forehead as blood kept flowing, seeping through the gaps between my fingers.

On the sofa, Cynthia watched me. Her eyes glittered with triumph and spite.

I braced myself against the cabinet and slowly straightened.

Without sparing them another glance, I picked up my briefcase and walked into the private elevator.

The late-night wind cut across my forehead, a cold so sharp it burned.

He would never know that moment had severed the last thread between us.