Olivia POV

I stepped out of the gallery and onto the pavement.

It was raining again. Of course it was.

I remained on the sidewalk, letting the water soak through my clothes. I didn't bother looking for an umbrella.

I thought about Marcus and his attempt to offer me a job. The arrogance of it. He thought he could buy my presence. He thought I was merely a problem to be solved.

I raised my hand and hailed a cab.

"JFK," I repeated as I slid into the backseat.

The car sped through the wet streets. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon color against the glass.

I rolled down the window. The wind hit my face, cold and wet and smelling of ozone.

It felt like freedom.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the icy air.

"I am not a business asset," I whispered to the wind. "I am Olivia Hayes."

The skyline receded behind me. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the tower where Marcus lived—they all shrank until they were just toys in the distance, insignificant and small.

I closed the window.

The rest was a blur of motion. I arrived at the terminal, checked my bag, and swept through security.

Finally, I sat at the gate.

Boarding Group 1.

I stood up.

I walked down the jet bridge, leaving New York behind with every step.

I found my seat. Window.

The plane taxied. The engines roared to life.

We lifted off.

I looked down at the black void below. The rain lashed against the plastic window, weeping for a city I no longer called home.

I pressed my hand against the cool surface.

*Goodbye.*

The plane punched through the cloud layer.

Suddenly, the turbulence stopped. The rain stopped.

Above the clouds, the moon was shining. It was bright and clear and blindingly beautiful.

I leaned my head back against the seat.

I closed my eyes.

I was flying toward a new world. No Marcus. No Izzy. Just me.

And for the first time in years, the silence in my head wasn't lonely. It was peaceful.

I smiled.

The nightmare was over. The dream was just beginning.

Olivia POV

My life had become a series of mechanical motions.

Wake up. Breathe. Pack. Repeat.

I was numb. It wasn't a peaceful numbness; it was the kind you feel after a dentist injects novocaine into your gums—heavy, swollen, and fundamentally wrong.

Saturday.

My flight was on Saturday.

The date mocked me from the calendar on my phone. Saturday was the anniversary of our first date. We had eaten pizza on a rooftop in Brooklyn, and he had told me I tasted like oregano and starlight.

Now, I tasted like ash.

I sat on the floor of my living room, surrounded by the debris of a life I was dismantling. In my hands, I held a stack of Polaroids.

*Snip.*

The scissors cut through Marcus's smiling face.

*Snip.*

They cut through his arm around my waist.

*Snip.*

They cut through the way he used to look at me.

I didn't burn them. Fire was too dramatic, too passionate. I just shredded them. Cold, efficient destruction. The pieces fell into the trash bag like confetti for a funeral.

A knock on the door shattered the silence.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a traitorous rhythm. I knew that knock. Two sharp raps, a pause, one heavy thud.

I opened the door.

Marcus stood there.

He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his top button undone. He looked like the man I used to comfort with a glass of aged scotch and silence.

"What do you want?" I asked. My voice was flat. Dead.

He blinked, surprised by the lack of warmth. He stepped into the apartment without asking, his eyes scanning the boxes.

"You're really leaving," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Saturday," I said.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Izzy is driving me crazy with the wedding prep. The flowers. The seating charts. I just needed..." He looked at me, and for a second, I saw the old Marcus. "I needed a quiet place."

He was using me as a rest stop. A buffer zone before he went back to his real life.

"I'm not your quiet place anymore, Marcus," I said.

He frowned. "Don't be like that. You know you're the only one who gets me."

"I get you," I said. "That's the problem."

I took a breath. I needed to sever the last thread. I needed to see if there was even a microscopic atom of care left in him.

"My flight is on Saturday morning," I said. "Drive me to the airport. One last time. For closure."

He checked his watch. The movement was automatic, dismissive.

"Saturday? I can't. The florist is coming to the penthouse at ten. Izzy needs me there."

He didn't even hesitate. He didn't even pretend to check his schedule. Flowers were more important than my departure.

"Right," I said. The word tasted like bile. "Flowers."

"I'll send my driver," he said, turning back to the door. "Carl will take you. He's reliable."

"I don't need Carl," I whispered.

"I have to go," he said. "I just wanted to see if you were... okay."

"I'm fantastic," I lied.

He nodded, relieved he didn't have to dig deeper. He walked out.

The door clicked shut.

The sound broke me.

I slid down the wall, my hands gripping my hair. The tears came hot and fast, scalding my cheeks. He chose flowers. He chose a seating chart over saying goodbye to me.

I saw a piece of paper sticking out from under the sofa. I pulled it out.

It was a draft. A letter he had started writing to me a year ago, back when we were happy.

*My dearest Olivia, I can't imagine a future without—*

The sentence ended there. He hadn't finished it. He couldn't imagine a future without me, so he went out and bought a future with someone else.

I ripped the paper in half. Then quarters. Then eighths.

I stood up, needing to get this trash out of my house, out of my life. I grabbed the bag of shredded photos.

I turned too fast. My sock caught on the edge of a rug.

I fell forward.

The door opened.

Marcus. He had come back. Maybe he forgot his phone. Maybe he forgot his conscience.

I crashed right into him.

His arms went around me instinctively to steady me. My chest pressed against his. His scent—sandalwood and betrayal—filled my nose.

For a second, it felt like coming home.

Then I remembered he belonged to Izzy.

I tried to push him away, panic rising in my throat like bile.

"Let go," I gasped.

But he didn't. Instead, he held on tighter.

Olivia POV

His grip was unyielding, bands of iron against my skin.

My brain stuttered to a halt. The physical sensation of him—the heat of his chest, the overwhelming strength of his arms—warred with the reality of who he was.

"Marcus, stop," I said, my voice trembling.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck. His breath was hot, scorching my skin and reeking of whiskey. He wasn't just tired; he was obliterated.

"You smell so good," he mumbled. "Better than her."

*Her.*

He kissed the sensitive spot under my ear. My body stiffened, rejecting him on a cellular level. This wasn't affection. This was consumption.

"Izzy," he whispered against my skin. "I love you, Izzy."

The name was a knife twisting in my gut.

He wasn't holding me. He was holding a projection. He was holding the idea of a woman, and he didn't even know which one it was.

"I am not Izzy!" I screamed, shoving hard against his chest.

He didn't hear me. Or he didn't care. He swept me up into his arms, his movements clumsy but forceful.

"Let's go upstairs," he slurred. "To the suite."

He carried me out of my apartment. I kicked. I scratched at his shoulders. But he was six-foot-two and fueled by adrenaline and alcohol. He carried me into the elevator like I was nothing more than a rag doll.

He took me to the penthouse. *His* penthouse. The one he shared with her.

He kicked the door open and stumbled into the bedroom. He dropped me onto the bed—the bed they shared.

I scrambled backward, hitting the headboard with a dull thud.

"Marcus, look at me!" I yelled. "It's Olivia!"

He blinked. For a second, the fog in his eyes seemed to lift. He looked at me, *really* looked at me, and confusion clouded his face.

"Olivia?" he whispered.

Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed onto the bed beside me, passing out cold.

I sat there, shaking. My heart was beating so fast I thought it would explode against my ribs.

I was trapped. If I left now, the doorman would see me. If I stayed...

Exhaustion, heavy and black, pulled me down. I curled into a ball on the furthest edge of the bed, as far away from him as I could get without falling off. I cried silently until my eyes burned dry.

Eventually, the adrenaline crashed, and darkness took me.

Sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of a door slamming woke me.

"What the hell is going on here?"

I shot up.

Izzy was standing in the doorway. She was wearing tennis whites, a racket in her hand. Her face was twisted in ugly, naked rage.

"I..." I started, my voice raspy from sleep.

"You slut!" she screeched. "I knew it! I knew you were trying to claw your way back in!"

Marcus groaned and stirred beside me. "Izzy? Keep it down."

"Keep it down?" She threw the racket. It hit the wall with a deafening crack. "You have your ex-mistress in our bed!"

"I'm not his mistress," I said, sliding off the bed, my legs wobbling beneath me. "He brought me here. He was drunk. He called me by your name."

"Liar!" Izzy marched over and got in my face. "You are obsessed with him. You're pathetic. You're trying to ruin my wedding because you can't stand that he chose me."

"He didn't choose you," I said quietly, finding my voice. "He chose your father's bank account."

Izzy’s hand flew up.

She didn't hit me. She stopped herself, a cruel smile spreading across her face.

"Get out," she hissed. "Get out before I call security and have you dragged out like the trash you are. You will never be part of this world, Olivia. You are nothing."

I grabbed my shoes. I didn't look at Marcus. He was sitting up now, holding his head, looking between us with bleary, useless eyes.

He didn't defend me.

I ran.

I ran out of the penthouse, down the hall, to the elevator.

The doors opened in the lobby.

I practically collided with my father.

David Hayes caught me by the shoulders. "Olivia? What happened? You look like..."

He saw my disheveled hair. The terror in my eyes.

"Did he hurt you?" David’s voice was low, dangerous.

Before I could answer, Izzy came storming out of the second elevator behind me.

"She tried to seduce him, David!" she shouted, playing the victim for the lobby to see. "I caught her in our bed!"

My father looked at Izzy, then at me. He saw the truth in my shattered expression.

"Is that true?" he asked me.

"No," I whispered. "He thought I was her. He doesn't even know who I am anymore."

I sank to the floor. The marble was cold against my legs.

"I want to go," I sobbed into my hands. "I just want to go."

My father wrapped his arms around me. "We're going. Now."