Chapter 2

Eliza's POV 

The door wasn’t locked. It stood open just a crack, enough for sound to slip out.

A laugh floated through the gap. High, smooth, musical. Chloe’s laugh. The one that always scraped against my nerves like sharp nails on metal. My hand froze on the handle. For one stupid second I thought maybe I heard wrong. Maybe it was the TV. Maybe it was someone else.

I pushed the door.

The first thing I saw was red. A scarlet silk dress lay crumpled on the hardwood floor like spilled blood. One strap twisted, the zipper half-down. I knew that dress. She wore it to our last anniversary party. Everyone said how stunning she looked. I had smiled and agreed.

Next to it, silver cufflinks glinted under the desk lamp. The ones I gave Scott on our first wedding anniversary. Engraved with our initials inside tiny hearts. He told me he loved them. Said he wore them every important day.

Then I saw them.

On the long black leather sofa—the one Scott insisted we buy because “it matched the office vibe.” He was on top. Shirt open, tie loose around his neck. Chloe underneath, legs wrapped around him, hair fanned out like dark silk. Their bodies moved together in a rhythm that looked practiced. Familiar.

Time slowed. Sounds became distant. My heartbeat thumped loud in my ears, drowning everything else.

Scott’s head turned. Our eyes met.

The look on his face wasn’t just surprise. It was panic. The kind you get when a plan you spent years building suddenly cracks open. His mouth opened, no sound came out. He froze mid-motion.

Chloe noticed a second later. She pushed him off gently, almost lazily, like this was nothing new. She sat up, reached for his robe—the gray cashmere one hanging on the back of the door—and wrapped it around herself. The belt she tied slow, deliberate.

“Eliza,” she said. Her voice stayed calm, almost sweet. “You’re early.”

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My feet felt nailed to the floor.

Scott scrambled for his shirt, buttons missing the holes. “This isn’t—this isn’t what it looks like.”

It was exactly what it looked like.

Chloe laughed again, softer this time. She walked to the mirror above the credenza, picked up her lipstick from the surface where she must have left it earlier. Deep red. Same shade as the dress on the floor. She twisted the tube open, leaned close to her reflection.

“You know,” she said while she traced the color over her bottom lip, “the baby thing must be such a relief for him. Honestly.”

My stomach dropped.

She glanced at me in the mirror. Our eyes locked there too.

“All those nights he pulled away from you,” she went on, casual, like she was discussing the weather. “He told me he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t let a little heir come along and muddy everything before he secured the company. Guess he finally secured it.”

The room tilted.

Secured it.

The merger. The Slack messages. Thorne’s people. Keep your wife in the dark.

He hadn’t just been cheating.

He had been stopping us from having a baby. On purpose. Every month I blamed my body, cried into my pillow, begged doctors for answers. Every negative test felt like my fault. My failure.

But it was him.

He made sure nothing happened. While he built his exit plan. While he took my father’s company piece by piece.

I looked at Scott.

He stood there, half-dressed, hair messy, eyes wide. No denial. No angry words. Just guilt. Raw, ugly guilt that stripped every charming smile he ever gave me down to nothing.

My knees gave out. I grabbed the doorframe to stop from falling.

Chloe capped her lipstick, dropped it into her purse. “Don’t look so shocked, darling. You were always too soft for this game.”

I turned and ran.

The hallway blurred. My heels clicked too loud on the marble. I didn’t wait for the elevator. I took the stairs, two at a time, almost tripping. My chest burned. Tears came fast now, hot and angry. I wiped them away with the back of my hand.

I burst out of the side exit into the corporate plaza.

Evening air hit my face. Cold. Sharp. The tower lights glowed behind me, all glass and steel. People in suits walked past, talking on phones, not noticing the woman standing there shaking.

I didn’t know where to go.

A black town car screeched to a stop right at the curb, tires almost kissing the sidewalk. The back window slid down smooth and quiet.

Adam Thorne sat inside.

Dark suit. No tie. Hair neat but eyes sharp, like he had been watching for this exact moment.

He looked at me—really looked. Took in the mascara streaks, the trembling hands, the way my dress clung to me like I had been running from something.

He didn’t ask if I was okay.

He didn’t say sorry.

He just leaned forward slightly and said, low and steady, “Get in the car, Eliza. Before the vultures from the press upstairs finish circling.”

I stared at him.

Behind me, I heard the tower doors open. Voices. Footsteps. Maybe Scott. Maybe security. Maybe reporters who always seemed to smell blood.

Adam’s eyes didn’t leave mine.

This wasn’t pity. This wasn’t kindness.

This was a move in a bigger game. And right now, I was the piece that just became free.

I stepped off the curb.

The door opened before I touched it. I slid inside. The leather was cool against my legs.

The window rolled up.

The car pulled away fast.

I looked back once. The tower shrank in the distance. Scott’s building. My father’s building. Soon maybe not mine at all.

Adam didn’t speak.

He just watched the road ahead, fingers resting light on his knee.

I turned to him.

“Why are you here?” My voice came out small, cracked.

He glanced at me. One corner of his mouth lifted. Not a smile. Something colder.

“Because the war just started,” he said. “And you’re finally ready to fight.”