That evening Ethan walked in smelling of cologne and confidence. He kissed my cheek the same way he always did, asked about my day as if he cared, poured himself a drink. I watched him, stunned by the performance.
“Everything okay?” he asked, noticing my silence.
“Fine,” I replied. “Just tired.”
I waited until he fell asleep. Then I started packing.
Not my things. His.
I pulled two suitcases from the closet and filled them with his suits, his shoes, his ridiculous monogrammed cufflinks. I added his toothbrush, his watch charger, and the framed photo from his desk—the one where his arm wrapped around me like he was proud.
At 8:15 a.m., I loaded everything into my trunk and drove to his office building.
The parking lot buzzed with employees and coffee cups. I walked inside like I belonged—because I did. I had built my life around a man who worked in that glass tower.
At reception, I smiled. “Hi. I’m here to drop something off for Ethan Lawson.”
The receptionist blinked. “Uh—”
“I’ll take it up,” I said, pulling the suitcases behind me. “It’s personal.”
And then I saw her.