Instead of going home, I drove straight to my office. I worked as a financial analyst at a private investment firm in Chicago, and numbers—unlike people—didn’t lie. Ethan’s construction company had been barely staying afloat, and I had helped restructure it. What he forgot was that my name was on half of it.
The next morning, I carried on as if nothing had happened. Smiled at work. Made coffee. Waited. I spent the day transferring ownership, freezing joint accounts, and digging through the digital dirt—late payments, questionable invoices, emails I’d ignored before.
By the time Ethan called that evening, confused about his frozen company card, I was already several steps ahead.
“Guess you’ll have to cover your next hotel stay yourself,” I said, and hung up.
For the first time since opening that bedroom door, I smiled. He thought he’d destroyed me. He had no idea what destruction really looked like.
Three days later, after countless missed calls, Ethan showed up at my apartment. Clean-shaven, polished, holding daisies—my favorite. The same flowers he’d brought the day he proposed.
“Lena, it was a mistake,” he pleaded, tone dripping with fake remorse. “Chloe means nothing. It just happened.”
I tilted my head. “You mean you accidentally slept with my best friend?”
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