003- The lunch trap

Ashley’s POV

I pushed through the glass doors of Ethan’s office building at 11:50 on the dot, the same way I always did when I brought him lunch or just wanted to steal ten minutes of his day. The receptionist gave me her usual small smile and waved me through without buzzing. Familiarity has its perks.

The hallway smelled faintly of coffee and printer toner. My heels clicked softly against the polished concrete.

Everything felt normal. I felt normal.

Until I didn’t.

I was maybe ten steps from his door when the voices leaked out—low, urgent, the kind of murmur people use when they think no one else is listening.

“We will have a wedding and be powerful. You become my legitimate wife, and Ash can’t touch us.”

Three words hit like ice water down my spine.

Wedding.

Legitimate wife.

Ash can’t touch us.

My feet stopped moving before my brain caught up, but inside, something ignited—a slow burn starting in my chest, spreading like wildfire through my veins. How dare he? How dare she? My own sister, twisting the knife like this was just another business deal.

For one stupid second I stood frozen in the hallway like a glitch in a video game, staring at the half-open door, hearing my own heartbeat in my ears.My nails dug into my palms, hard enough to leave marks, but I forced my face smooth. No scene yet.

Then I straightened my shoulders, smoothed the front of my blouse, and walked in like I owned the place. Because once upon a time I thought I did.

They both looked up at the same moment.

Ethan was leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. Vina stood near the window, clutching her phone so hard her knuckles were white. The air in the room felt thick, like someone had just sucked all the oxygen out.

I gave them my politest public smile. “Hey.”

Vina’s eyes widened a fraction before she caught herself.

Ethan recovered faster. “Ash. Perfect timing.”

I ignored him for a second and looked straight at her. “Hey Vina, everything okay? I called you earlier and you didn’t pick up.”

Her face went completely blank—like someone had hit reset. “Oh really? My phone’s on silent. I didn’t hear.”

I nodded once. Slowly just enough to look like I understood.

Liar.

The word burned in my throat, hot and unspoken. My sister, my blood, standing there like she hadn't just plotted to steal my life.

She glanced at Ethan, then back at me, and I watched the panic bloom behind her eyes like blood in water.

“I shouldn’t interrupt you two,” she said too quickly. “I’ll go.”

She took one step toward the door.

Ethan moved faster than I expected. He stepped sideways, putting himself between her and the exit.

“No,” he said. Quietly and firm. “Stay. We’re not done.”

Vina froze, shoulders rigid. For a heartbeat no one spoke.

Then she ducked her head, pushed past him—not hard, just enough—and slipped out the door. I heard her heels clatter down the hallway, fast, almost running. She looked like she was about to cry.

I didn’t follow her.

I didn’t even turn my head. Part of me wanted to chase her, to scream until the building shook—how could you do this to me? To us? But I swallowed it down, letting it coil in my gut like a promise of revenge.

Instead I walked the rest of the way into the office, set my bag on the chair, and sat down on the leather sofa opposite Ethan’s desk. I crossed my legs. I leaned back. I let my hands rest loosely in my lap like I had all the time in the world.

My pulse hammered, a war drum in my ears, but I kept my voice steady. He wouldn't see me break.

Ethan watched me the whole time, then he cleared his throat. “Hungry?”

He reached behind his desk and lifted a sleek black lunch box—the kind you order from those overpriced organic places that promise “clean fuel for high performers.”

He popped the lid. Grilled salmon, quinoa, avocado, little edible flowers on top like it was trying too hard.

He held it out to me like nothing had happened.

I didn’t move to take it.

I just looked at him. Bastard. The word echoed in my mind, sharp as a blade. Seven years, and this is how it ends? With quinoa and lies?

He set the box on the desk between us. The smell of lemon and herbs drifted over.

I let the silence linger, unsure how to move past it.

Then, very calmly, I asked, “So… what’s going on?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried on his boardroom smile—the one he uses when he’s about to close a deal.

“Nothing you need to worry about, babe. Just work stuff. Vina’s been stressed about a client.”

I tilted my head. Lies on top of lies. The heat in my chest flared, but I kept my expression cool, a mask over the inferno.

He kept going, voice smooth. “You know how she gets. Over-invested. I was just telling her to dial it back.”

I nodded like I was considering it.

Then I leaned forward just enough that our eyes were level.

“When were you going to tell me you’d already decided to divorce me?” I asked softly. “Because I’m beginning to wonder if you were also lying about everything else.” My voice didn't waver, but inside, I was screaming—every vow, every shared dream, crumbling like ash.

The smile disappeared.

Ethan froze completely.

The lunch box sat between us like a stupid, innocent witness.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even breathe for a second.

Then his hand twitched-just once, like he was fighting the urge to reach for me, or maybe to crumple the envelope himself. "Ash, it's not—" he started, voice cracking for the first time I could remember, before he swallowed it back.

Then—slowly, almost casually—he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a slim white envelope. No stamp. No address. Just my name in his neat handwriting on the front.

He set it on the desk next to the salmon.

“I was going to wait until after the holidays,” he said quietly. “But since you asked…”

The envelope stared back at me, a final betrayal. My throat tightened, rage and hurt twisting together like barbed wire. This wasn't just the end—it was him choosing her over me, planning a future while I was still wearing his ring.

My pulse roared in my ears and my throat felt dry.

I didn’t touch the envelope.

I just stared at it.

At him.

At the man who still wore the wedding band I’d slipped onto his finger seven years ago.

And in that perfect, terrible quiet, I realized the worst part wasn’t the words I’d overheard.

It was that he’d already printed the papers.