Chapter 3: Replaceable

Kanya's POV 

The fluorescent lights of the office felt like needles in my eyes. My head throbbed with every step I took toward my desk. Taylor was right. I had reached a new low. 

I sat down and tried to focus on my computer screen, but the letters blurred. My stomach was still uneasy. 

The intercom buzzed. 

"Miss Klopper. In my office. Now." 

Zane’s voice was tight. I stood up too fast, and the room tilted. I waited for it to steady before walking to his door. 

Inside, he was already buried in a contract. His head remained down, his posture as composed and unshakable as it had been the day before. 

Without looking up, he asked, "Did you finish the scheduling for the Paris trip?" 

"I am working on it now, Mr. Knight," I said. My voice was raspy. 

He finally looked at me. His eyes moved over my face, lingering on the dark circles under my eyes. 

"You look terrible," he said. "If you cannot perform your duties because of your personal life, let me know." 

I flinched. "I had a long night. It won't happen again." 

He moved his right hand to turn a page, and I saw it. His knuckles were dark purple and swollen, the skin split over two of them. The kind of injury that came from hitting something hard. Or someone. 

I stepped closer to the desk. "Your hand. What happened?" 

Zane immediately pulled his hand back, hiding it under the edge of the mahogany desk. 

"It is nothing," he said. 

"It looks broken, Zane. Did you... were you at the bar last night?" 

He let out a short, harsh laugh. Leaning back in his chair, he finally met my eyes with an expression that was both cold and mocking. 

"At a dive bar with a red sign? Do you really think I have the time to chase you around the city while you make a fool of yourself?" 

“I know you were there,” I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I remember you hitting that man to get him away from me.” 

“You were drunk. You’re confusing whatever fantasy you built in your head with reality," he said. "If you want the truth, I will give it to you. I was not at a bar. I was at dinner with Sydney. We spent the entire night together."  

I felt the blood drain from my face. The memory of him holding me felt like it was dissolving. 

"Then how did you hurt your hand?" 

"I had a minor accident at home," he said, standing to tower over me. "Stop making things up. I was not there last night, and I will not be there the next time you decide to drink yourself into a hole." 

He pointed to the door. "Get out. And don't bring your personal delusions into this office again." 

I didn’t move right away. I looked at him instead. I searched his eyes, hoping to find something there. Anything. But all I saw was distance, like I meant nothing to him now. 

I turned and walked out. My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a vice. He had cheated. He had kissed that woman in front of me. He had thrown three years away like trash. And yet, I still looked at his bruised hand and wanted to take the pain away. 

I went to the breakroom and grabbed the first aid kit from the cabinet. I took what I needed and walked back into his office without knocking. 

Zane looked up, his jaw tight. "I told you to leave." 

I didn't say anything. I walked to his desk and set the supplies down in front of him. I reached out and grabbed his right wrist. He tried to pull away, but I held on. 

I opened a wipe and gently cleaned the broken skin, careful around the swelling. His hand was warm and stiff under my touch. 

"Miss Klopper," he warned. His voice was lower now. 

"I don't care if you were there or not," I said, my voice trembling. "I don't care if you hate me now. Your hand is a mess." 

I wrapped the ice pack in a thin cloth and pressed it lightly against his knuckles. He winced, his fingers twitching against my palm. For a second, he didn't pull away. He let me hold his hand. He looked at me, and for a heartbeat, the coldness in his eyes flickered. 

Then he jerked his hand back. The ice pack hit the desk with a thud. 

"That is enough," he said. He got to his feet and moved to the window, his back facing me. "I don’t need your help, Miss Klopper." 

"I just…" I started. 

"I said I don’t need your help," he cut in. "I don’t want anything from you." 

He turned away, his face closing off again. For a moment, he said nothing, like he was weighing something in his head. Then his jaw tightened. 

"Actually, there is one thing," he said. "My house. Your things are still there. Sydney is moving in this weekend. I want everything gone by tomorrow night." 

The air left my lungs. It had been two days. We lived together for three years, and he was moving her in already. 

"Tomorrow?" I whispered. "Zane, I have a lot of stuff. I need time to find a place for it all." 

"I don't care where you put it," he said. "Hire a moving company. Throw it away. I don't care. Just make sure the house is empty of your presence before Friday." 

I stared at him for a long time. I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask how he could replace three years of our life in a matter of hours. Instead, I just nodded. 

"I will be there," I said. 

"Good. Leave the key on the kitchen island when you are done." 

He didn’t look at me again. He sat down and picked up his pen as if I were no longer there. 

I walked out of the office and went straight to the restroom. I locked myself in a stall and sat on the toilet. 

I didn’t cry. My eyes were too dry for that. 

I just sat there and waited for my heart to slow down