I don't remember how I got home.

I let myself in with my key, and the motion-sensor light in the entryway flickered on, illuminating the matching slippers we kept side-by-side—a ridiculous, glaring sight.

The Italian leather sofa we'd picked out together in the living room, the white roses I'd arranged on the dining table, and on the balcony, the mint and basil I had so carefully tended, now thriving... every single object was a silent mockery of my foolishness.

I didn't turn on the lights. I felt my way to the sofa, curled into a ball, and buried my face in my knees.

I don't know how much time passed before I heard the lock turn.

The living room lights flashed on, so bright they stung my eyes.

Ethan was home.

He was humming an off-key tune as he took off his Tom Ford suit jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. When he saw me, his expression was blank, devoid of the guilt or awkwardness I'd expected after the gala.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark? You scared me," he said, loosening his tie as he walked toward the bathroom. "I'm going to shower first. I reek of alcohol."

I watched his back. How could he be so casual?

It was as if the three years we'd spent together, all those intimate days and nights, were nothing but a meaningless dream.

After his shower, Ethan strolled out with a towel slung low on his hips, water trickling down the hard planes of his abs.

He smelled of the Aesop body wash we always used.

He dried his hair as he walked straight toward my bedroom.

Then, as I watched, he pulled back the covers of my bed with practiced ease, preparing to lie down.

In that instant, the humiliation that had been simmering all night finally boiled over.

"What are you doing!" I rushed over and shoved him with all my strength.

Ethan stumbled, then turned back, his face a mask of shocked, uncomprehending innocence.

"What am I doing?" His brows furrowed tightly. "Chloe, what's with the attitude now?"

"Ethan, this is my bed," I said, my voice trembling as uncontrollably as my hands.

"I know it's your bed." His expression was one of pure entitlement as he took a step toward me. "So?"

"You're getting engaged!" I practically screamed.

He finally seemed to understand, but his expression only grew more contemptuous and impatient.

"My engagement isn't until next month," he said, reaching out to stroke my face like he used to. I flinched away in disgust.

His hand froze mid-air, and his face hardened. "That doesn't mean we have to stop sleeping together. You enjoy it just as much as I do, don't you?"

After a struggle, I finally shoved him out of my room.

That night, I lay awake until dawn.

Everything in the bedroom suffocated me.

The photo of us on the nightstand, the half of the closet he occupied, even the lingering scent of his body wash in the air.

As soon as the sun rose, I got out of bed and dragged a dusty suitcase from the deepest corner of the storage closet.

I had to get out. Now.

Without a shred of sentimentality, I mechanically stuffed my clothes, design books, and cosmetics into the suitcase.

The matching couple's outfits and mugs I once treasured were now tossed into a trash bag without a second thought.

The noise I made woke Ethan up.

He leaned against my bedroom doorframe, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and taking in the mess on the floor with a wide yawn.

"What's all this fuss about so early in the morning?" His tone was less a question than a complaint about being disturbed.

I ignored him, zipping up the full suitcase and grabbing a cardboard box to start clearing the bookshelf.

My silence finally seemed to get through to him.

He walked over to me, the sleepiness vanishing from his face.

"You're moving out?" He scoffed. "Chloe, can you stop being so childish?"

I stopped what I was doing and looked at him coldly. "I can't live here anymore."

He crossed his arms, launching into a lecture. "Have you even done the math? A one-bedroom this size in Manhattan will run you at least five grand a month. Add utilities, and what's left of that little freelance income of yours? You won't even be able to afford your daily Starbucks."

He paused, then leaned in close, his warm breath on my face. "Living here with me saves you at least twenty-five hundred a month, without downgrading your lifestyle."

Seeing my blank expression, he must have thought he needed to apply more pressure. He added, his voice low and self-satisfied, "And, it's convenient for me, too."

I trembled with anger, my nails digging deep into my palms.

Ethan, completely oblivious to my fury, thought my silence was a sign of wavering.

He casually picked up a piece of Agent Provocateur lace lingerie I had just folded—something I had bought specially for an anniversary.

He rubbed the silky lace between his fingers, then leaned down and pressed his lips to my ear, his voice a low, suggestive whisper meant only for me:

"Besides, you can't deny we're good together in bed, can you?"

"Are you sure you want to give that up?"

He lightly nibbled my earlobe, and I turned my head away in revulsion.

"Honestly," he chuckled, his voice taking on a sleazy edge, "Isabella is nowhere near as wild as you are."

He then squeezed my ass. "Chloe, be reasonable. I provide you with a comfortable place in Manhattan, and you satisfy some of my needs. It's a win-win, the most practical transaction between two adults. Don't make it so complicated, okay?"