Chapter 2

I sat in the living room and smoked the entire night.

From the guest room, broken, intermittent sounds drifted out—sounds that made my face burn.

Caitlin’s voice, deliberately lowered yet somehow even more provocative, echoed through the walls like the ultimate humiliation.

They were certain I wouldn’t actually swing the knife.

They were so sure that someone like me—a “good guy”—would just swallow it and endure.

Early the next morning, I sat there with dark circles under my eyes, the entire apartment reeking of smoke.

The guest room door opened.

Caitlin walked out wearing my white dress shirt. Her long legs were covered in bruises, deep purple marks scattered across her skin, as proof of last night.

When she saw me, she waved her hand in front of her nose, clearly disgusted by the smell. "Cameron, are you trying to kill someone? How many sticks did you smoke?"

Jackson followed behind her, glowing with satisfaction, looking like a man who had just eaten his fill. He walked up to me, picked up the last cigarette on the table, and lit it. Then he patted my shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Thanks, man. That mattress is amazing. Great bounce. She loved it. From now on, I’ll just treat that guest room as mine. You’re always working late anyway."

I stared at him coldly, saying nothing.

Caitlin walked over, her tone impatient. "Where’s breakfast? Hurry up and make me some hot chicken soup. I'm freezing. The floor was too cold last night."

The shamelessness of it stunned me. She could still order me around as if nothing had happened.

In the past, I would’ve already been in the kitchen, apron on, afraid she’d go hungry.

But today, all I felt was disgust.

"Make it yourself from now on." I grabbed my briefcase and headed for the door.

Caitlin froze for a second, then her expression flared with anger. "Cameron, what’s with your attitude? It was just a game. Are you really holding a grudge over this?

"I told you, it’s stress relief. It helps me deal with life better. Why are you being so petty? Go, cook. Jackson’s hungry. He worked so hard last night—"

She didn’t get to finish.

I slammed the door behind me.

Something hit the door from inside, followed by her furious shouting.

"Cameron, you’ve got some nerve now! If you don’t get on your knees and apologize tonight, don’t even think about getting back into my bed!"

Her bed? Now it felt filthy.

At the office, I forced myself to focus on work.

Then my phone buzzed. A bank notification.

[Your card ending in 6767 has been charged $52,000 at Maison Virelle.]

Right after that, Caitlin posted on social media.

The photo showed a limited-edition handbag and a man’s hand resting casually on her shoulder.

Caption: "All my unhappiness evaporated in this moment. Thanks to the one who understands me best."

Likes poured in from mutual friends.

Comments flooded the post.

"Damn, Cameron’s generous. He just bought a house and now a designer bag?"

Caitlin replied with a shy emoji.

Only I knew that was Jackson’s hand. And it was my card.

My grip tightened around my phone until my knuckles turned white. They were using my money to show off their relationship, while using my name to do it.

I was about to call the bank to freeze the card when there was a knock on my office door.

My secretary, Gabriel Carter, stepped in, his expression tense.

"Mr. Pruitt, something’s wrong. The city project—the one we were supposed to win—we just got notified we’ve been disqualified.

"They said our company is under investigation for unfair competition. Someone reported us."

My heart dropped. That project was everything I had worked for this year. It was the reason I felt confident buying a house and why I thought I could get married.

I had spent half a year pulling all-nighters for it, drinking until my stomach bled.

"Who reported us?"

Gabriel hesitated, then handed me a few printed screenshots.

"It wasn’t anonymous. He filed it under his real name. The person claims to be your roommate. Name’s Jackson Dalton. He also attached photos—said they’re evidence of bribery."

I looked at the photos. I was carrying a gift bag, heading into a meeting with a client.

Nothing unusual. Inside was just a bottle of wine.

However, the angles and the framing were deliberately sneaky, making it look like something illegal was inside.

Like I was delivering gold bars.

The time and place made it obvious that whoever took those photos had been following me.

Suddenly, I remembered that day, before I left the house, Caitlin had straightened my collar and casually asked if I was going out to deliver gifts.