3

Chapter 3

I packed my suitcase in silence.

No more tailored suits in neutral tones—the kind Ethan preferred.

No more beige sweaters and soft hair buns.

In the mirror, I saw someone different.

Red lips. Black leather jacket. A woman who no longer wanted to be forgiven.

I grabbed my phone.

“Catherine,” I said. “I need a drink.”

The bar was loud, the air thick with jazz and whiskey.

Catherine raised an eyebrow the moment she saw me.

“Well, well. The prodigal partner returns.”

I smiled faintly and emptied the glass in one go.

“Pathetic, isn’t it? I could destroy anyone in court, yet I couldn’t win at home.”

Catherine leaned forward, her expression sharp.

“Are you sure you want to win at home? Because from what I’ve heard, your husband’s firm is on the verge of a scandal.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

She lowered her voice.

“Rumors say that the woman he’s ‘helping’—your late friend’s wife—has been visiting the firm almost every day. Some of the partners are asking questions.”

My stomach clenched. “That’s impossible.”

“Sarah,” she said gently, “if she’s pregnant, are you absolutely sure that child belongs to her husband?”

The glass slipped from my hand, shattering. Whiskey spilled across the counter like blood.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

For the first time, doubt poisoned everything.

I ordered another drink. Then another.

By the third, the room was spinning, but my thoughts were crystal clear: if Clara’s child wasn’t Lewis’s, then who else could it be?

“Sarah!”

A voice broke through the haze.

Ethan.

He stormed into the bar, suit jacket unbuttoned, eyes blazing.

“Are you insane? Drinking like this alone?”

I laughed. “Oh, now you care?”

He pulled me up, ignoring my struggle. “You’re drunk.”

“Don’t touch me,” I hissed, but my words came out slurred.

The last thing I remembered was his hand on my waist, dragging me out of the bar as I kicked and cursed him.

When I woke, my head felt like it had been split in two.

I was still in yesterday’s clothes.

Downstairs, voices.

I followed them—and froze.

Clara was sitting comfortably on the couch. A new vase, fresh flowers, and Ethan’s arm draped casually over the sofa behind her.

She looked up, smiling like the perfect hostess.

“You’re finally awake. Ethan was up all night worrying about you.”

My stomach twisted.

She stroked her stomach lightly.

“You really should appreciate him more, Sarah. He’s such a good man.”

I laughed, bitter and cold. “And you’re quite the actress.”

Her expression faltered, but only for a second.

“I just don’t want your marriage to fall apart,” she murmured.

I stepped closer, voice low and dangerous.

“Then pack your things. If you truly care about this marriage, get out of my house.”

Her eyes widened. The mask cracked—but only for a second.