Chapter 3

I channeled all my fury into the slam of my bedroom door.

But it wasn't enough to stop Chloe from moving into my home.

I leaned against the door, tears streaming down my face in silence.

I heard Chloe's voice from the other side.

“Charles, you must feel so wronged.”

His voice held a hint of a smile. “You're the one who's been wronged. I'm sorry. I'll go talk to Natalie.”

“It's all my fault…”

Their voices faded into the distance.

I slid weakly to the floor, my hands trembling violently.

I realized then that I had never forgotten the pain Chloe had caused me.

The sight of her still filled me with a primal terror.

It was a feeling like being pulled under the ice-cold, bottomless waters of Lake Washington.

I took a deep breath, double-locked the door, and started packing my things.

A knock sounded at the door.

It was followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock—I had forgotten he had a key to every room.

He didn't seem surprised to see me packing, but his voice softened.

“Natalie, let me explain.”

“Chloe misspoke during a livestream and offended some powerful people. Now her place isn't safe. We grew up together. I can't just abandon her.”

“You've always been so kind and reasonable. Even if you can't forgive her, you can at least understand my position, right?”

I stared at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“All those things from back then… do you really think they can just be written off?”

He froze for a moment, then lowered his head.

“I believe you were truly hurt. But I also believe she had her reasons.”

“You have a better life than her now. You're my wife. You've already won.”

“So, can’t we just drop it?”

The room fell into a dead silence.

I heard the sound of my own tears hitting the floor and completely lost the will to speak.

Seeing me continue to pack in silence, he sighed.

“I have to go to the office. I hope you're still here when I get back.”

He left the room.

I closed my eyes, stopping my tears and swallowing the question burning in my heart.

What in the world do you take me for, Charles Rivers? A poised and gracious housewife who should just tolerate your old flame? And I’m supposed to be grateful for the privilege?

I used to think it was inconceivable for someone like Charles to be friends with someone like Chloe.

How could a man who shone like a star be childhood sweethearts with scum from the gutter?

Now I understand.

They're cut from the same cloth.

That's why they cherish one another, their hearts and souls in sync.

I called for a moving truck.

I had them move everything that belonged to me—my design drafts, my trophies, my clothes.

The commotion was loud enough to disturb Chloe upstairs.

She leaned against the second-floor railing, a seductive smile on her face, a long, slender cigarette held between her fingers.

She was a completely different person from the one she’d been in front of Charles.

“Giving up so soon? And I haven't even really started.”

She wore a silk nightgown with a high slit, clearly for effect, as the movers couldn't help but stare.

Seeing that I was ignoring her, she grew more insistent.

“All I did was mention some baseless threat in front of him, and he got so scared.”

“I’m not trying to be cruel, Natalie, but you’re pathetic. I let you have him for all these years, and you still couldn’t keep him. It’s hilarious.”

“Do you really think that just because you're leaving, his heart will go with you?”

“Then again, I guess this is all you're capable of.”

I looked at her coldly.

“If you're so amazing, why didn't you get him to marry you back then?”

The smile on her face froze.

I smiled.

I knew Charles would never marry her.

A woman with a juvenile criminal record and nothing to offer but her looks?

Charles is a rational and ambitious man. I know that better than anyone. He might walk through fire for her, but making her Mrs. Rivers was out of the question.

I ignored her, watching the movers load all of my belongings onto the truck.

Just as I was about to leave, my art portfolio was suddenly knocked from my hands.

I turned around to see the design sketch I had planned to take with me—the one that had won a major international award—rolling across the ground.

Chloe stood there holding a latte, looking down at me condescendingly.

“Oops, my hand slipped.”

The scalding hot coffee spilled all over the artwork, instantly blooming into an ugly brown stain.

“Oh, right,” she crouched down, leaning close to my ear to whisper, “Remember how it felt? Seeing those pictures of you plastered all over Instagram?”

Slap!

Trembling, I slapped her across the face with all my might.

She didn't dodge. A triumphant smirk flashed in her eyes.

I was shuddering all over.

Half in fear, half in rage.

In the end, the moving truck never left.

Because Charles had returned.

His look was one of pure disappointment.

It was as if the stinging shame on my face and the ruin of the artwork I had poured my soul into couldn't stir the slightest bit of compassion in him.

“Natalie, you’re being completely unreasonable,” he said, his voice cold. “If you really want to go, then just go.”

“I won't stop you anymore.”

My vision went black.

“Charles, let's get a divorce.”