Chapter 2

The phone rang almost the second I hung up.

"Are you serious?" My friend's voice was thick with disbelief. "Weren’t you the one who swore to stick with Vivian through her startup?"

My grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles turning white. "She doesn’t need me anymore."

Back then, both Vivian and I had received the same offer from a mutual friend—generous equity, flexible hours. For her sake, I’d even turned down a lucrative side gig.

I still remembered that freezing winter night when I collapsed in the snow, half-dead. Vivian dragged me into a police station and saved my life. I repaid that debt with five years of my youth. Now, it seemed like nothing more than a pathetic one-sided devotion.

"Signing the contract tomorrow," I said curtly before hanging up.

At home, I started packing. This house, bought outright with my savings, now felt alien. As I bent to clear under the bed, a stack of yellowed sketches slid out.

The drawings captured Vivian in every mood—smiling, pouting, alive on paper. She used to adore my portraits of her, framing each one with care. Until Ethan Winslow showed up. Suddenly, my art was "tacky," and these sketches were banished to the shadows.

I flicked my lighter open. The flame leaped up, devouring those smiling faces—just like our relationship, long reduced to ashes.

My phone buzzed as I finished cleaning. In the company group chat, Ethan had posted a photo: Vivian at the arcade center, arms full of plush toys, beaming. That kind of joy? I hadn’t seen it directed at me in ages.

The last time I took her to an arcade, she walked out. "Childish!" Turns out, it wasn’t the games she hated. Just me.

The message was quickly deleted. Too late. I’d already seen it.

The lock clicked. Vivian walked in humming, then froze at the sight of me. Her lips curled in a sneer, waiting for my usual groveling apology.

I kept scrolling through rental listings.

"Did you see the group message?" she finally snapped.

"What message?" I didn’t look up.

Relief flashed across her face. "Just a work notice sent to the wrong group." A pause. "Ethan’s car got fixed. What about yours?"

"It’s a junker. Not worth repairing."

Her brows knitted. "Ryan, stop being petty. The company car is to retain talent."

Talent? That idiot who couldn’t even send the right quote?

When I stayed silent, her tone softened. "The company will be yours someday. Why fuss over this?" She looped her arms around my neck. "Let’s talk about our wedding instead."

The scent of men’s cologne hit me—Ethan’s signature. My stomach lurched. I shoved her off and grabbed a wet wipe, scrubbing my hands raw.

"You—!" Vivian’s face darkened.

I met her glare. "We’re done, Vivian."