Chapter 2

Later that night, Ethan left the restaurant with Claire.

The moment the door closed behind them, the table came alive.

"First love wins again," someone said.

"He almost blew up his whole family over her back then," another friend replied. "If Claire hadn't moved away, they'd probably be married with two kids by now."

I sat quietly, listening to people describe a love story Ethan had never tried to hide.

He had fought for Claire. He had let friends tease him about Claire. Years after they broke up, everyone still knew exactly what she had meant to him.

With me, he had left nothing.

In my first life, I had married him anyway.

I had believed a wedding ring would settle what three years of secrecy could not. Instead, after the ceremony, Ethan moved into the guest room. He left early, came home late, and sometimes stayed away for days.

The only reason we tried for a child was that his parents wanted a grandchild. Even then, he treated intimacy like a chore on a schedule. I had asked him to slow down, to hold me, to look at me.

He had stared past my shoulder until it was over.

That same night, he went to Claire's apartment.

Months later, during my pregnancy, I woke with cramps so sharp I could not stand. I called him because I was frightened and wanted my husband.

He answered, heard my voice, and said he was busy before I could finish the first sentence.

Later, Claire posted photos from a shopping trip. Ethan was beside her, carrying bags and smiling in a way I had not seen at home in years.

Near the end of the pregnancy, the bleeding started.

I called him from the bathroom floor. He was traveling with Claire, and his patience broke almost immediately.

"If it's an emergency, call 911," he said. "I can't do anything from here.""Call an ambulance, Mia," he said. "What do you expect me to do? I'm not a doctor."

I had tried to tell him I was scared.

He hung up.

Claire sent me pictures soon after. Ethan laughing over dinner. Ethan walking beside the harbor. Ethan looking at her with open affection.

I called 911 myself. By the time help arrived, blood had soaked through my clothes and spread over the tile.

At the hospital, doctors performed an emergency C-section and fought the hemorrhage. The baby did not survive. Neither did I.

Ethan did not believe I was dead until he came home.

Remembering that life no longer made me want revenge. It made me tired. More than anything, it made the answer simple.

I would never marry him again.

The birthday dinner broke up not long after Ethan left. My brother drove me home, glancing at me every few minutes.

"You haven't checked your phone once," he said. "Should I be concerned?"

In the past, I had texted Ethan constantly and blamed my smile on friends whenever my brother noticed.

"I had a fight with one of the girls," I said. "I'm figuring out how to apologize."

It was not completely a lie. I had pushed several friends away because they asked too many questions about the man I would never name.

My brother grunted, unconvinced, but let it go.

After midnight, I opened Instagram and saw that Ethan had posted.

He almost never shared anything personal. Tonight, there was a photograph of him carrying Claire on his back through the rain while she held an umbrella over both of them.

No caption. He did not need one.

The comments were full of congratulations, heart emojis, and jokes about finally getting back together.

My thumb brushed the screen by accident, liking the post.

When I refreshed the page, it was gone.

A message from Claire appeared a minute later.

Ethan drove me home, but it started pouring. I didn't want him on the road so late, so he's staying here. I hope that doesn't bother you.

In my first life, I had called Ethan immediately. I had demanded to know where he planned to sleep and why Claire thought she had the right to warn me.

This time I typed one word.

Okay.

Claire read it almost immediately. Three dots appeared, vanished, and appeared again. She had expected a fight. In the old life, she had known exactly how to provoke one. I would call Ethan, Ethan would accuse me of being dramatic, and Claire would become the calm woman he had to comfort after my jealousy exhausted him.

I had played my part so reliably that both of them mistook it for my personality.

No second message came.

I looked at the photograph once more before closing the app. Rain blurred the streetlights behind them. Ethan's hands were hooked securely under Claire's knees, and she leaned over his shoulder with an ease that came from being seen. The picture hurt, but it also clarified something I had resisted for years. He understood public affection. He had simply withheld it from me.

The picture hurt, but it also clarified something I had resisted for years. He understood public affection. He had simply withheld it from me.

That distinction mattered. I did not need to teach him how to love openly. I needed to stop volunteering for a love he insisted on hiding.

I set my phone down.

Then Ethan texted.

Claire has a charity gala in a few days and didn't have time to shop. You just bought that silver dress. Let her borrow it.

I read the message twice.

The dress had been custom altered. I had not worn it yet. Formal gowns were not sweatshirts people casually passed around, especially when the borrower had spent the night needling the owner's private relationship.

My anger came fast and clean.

Not because Claire wanted my dress. Because Ethan still assumed my things, my time, and my patience belonged to him after he had handed me away as a joke.

I did not answer.

At nine-thirty the next morning, the doorbell rang.

My mother's voice floated up the stairs. Then Mrs. Lewis, who had worked for our family since I was a teenager, knocked on my bedroom door.

"Mia? Your mother says to come down. Ethan is here. He brought a guest."

Of course he had.

He had not received an answer, so he had arrived to collect one in person.

And he had brought Claire with him.