Chapter 2

Aria’s POV

I don’t remember how I got home that day.

Maybe I drove. Maybe I walked. Maybe I just floated through the city like a ghost who hadn’t realized she was dead.

The next thing I remember clearly is standing in the middle of my apartment, still wearing my engagement dress fitting from earlier, staring at the ring on my finger.

The diamond glimmered under the soft light—perfect, flawless, cold. A symbol of love, he’d said. Our forever.

My laugh cracked through the silence.

Forever.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, the one we picked together months ago, the one we’d never share again. My mind kept replaying that scene—Selene’s bare shoulders, Ethan’s startled face, his hand on her like it belonged there.

And the part that hurt the most wasn’t even the betrayal.

It was how easily I could still hear his voice in my head saying, I love you, Aria. I’d never hurt you.

What a cruel joke.

My phone buzzed again. It had been ringing non-stop since I left the building—Ethan, his secretary, even a few reporters who’d somehow gotten wind of the chaos inside Black Corporation. I turned it off and tossed it across the bed. I couldn’t stand to hear his name light up the screen again.

The doorbell rang once. Twice. Then came the knock I knew too well.

I didn’t move.

“Aria,” his voice called through the door, rough and low, the same tone that used to melt me. “Please. Open the door. I just want to talk.”

Talk. That’s what people say when they want to rewrite the truth.

I opened the door anyway, but only halfway. Ethan stood there—tie missing, hair disheveled, eyes full of guilt. The sight of him made something inside me twist painfully.

“Aria,” he started, “I swear, it wasn’t what you think. It—”

I laughed softly, cutting him off. “You mean I didn’t see you with Selene in your office?”

He flinched. “She came on to me. I didn’t—”

“Touch her? Because that’s exactly what you were doing.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “You think I imagined your hand on her?”

His jaw tightened. “It was a mistake, Aria. I was under pressure, I wasn’t thinking clearly. The merger, the stress—it all got to me. I love you. You know I do.”

The words hit me like broken glass. I wanted to believe them. I really did. But the image of him with her burned behind my eyes, a wound that words couldn’t patch.

“Love?” I repeated softly. “You love me?”

He nodded quickly, desperate.

“Then tell me,” I whispered, “how long does love excuse betrayal?”

He said nothing.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the city lights blurred through the window, little fragments of gold against the dark. I turned my hand, looking again at the ring. How heavy it suddenly felt.

I slipped it off my finger. The metal was cold against my palm.

Ethan’s eyes widened. “Aria, don’t—”

But I did.

I reached out took his hand, set it gently on his palm.

“You can have her, Ethan. I’ll take my dignity."

He reached for me, panic breaking through his composure. “Don’t do this. Don’t throw everything away over one mistake.”

“One mistake?” I stepped back. “You weren’t drunk. You weren’t drugged. You made a choice.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration seeping into his voice. “It meant nothing.”

That was it. That sentence—it meant nothing.

I stared at him, heart numb. “Then what does that make me, Ethan? If what you did meant nothing, then what does that make our entire relationship?”

His expression crumbled. “Aria, please…”

But I was done pleading. Done forgiving before an apology was even earned.

“I spent years building my life around you,” I said quietly. “Your schedule, your moods, your career. I made myself smaller just to fit into your world. And you still managed to find room for someone else.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, to explain, to fix it—but there was nothing left to fix.

I took a deep breath, my hands trembling slightly, and stepped aside. “Leave, Ethan. Please. Before I start hating you.”

He hesitated. For a second, I thought he might refuse. But then his shoulders slumped. He looked down at the ring on his palm—our symbol of forever—and turned walking away.

I clicked the door shut, the silence that followed was so heavy it felt like the air had turned solid. I sank onto the couch, my chest aching. My phone lay silent beside me, but I didn’t reach for it.

For the first time, I didn’t want to fix things.

I didn’t want to cry or call my best friend or drown in memories.

I just wanted to breathe.

Maybe this was what freedom felt like. Not relief, not peace—but the hollow ache that comes before healing.

I exhaled slowly. The sound of my heartbeat steadied.

Love had been my anchor. But tonight, I’d learned how to let go.

And as I sat there, surrounded by silence and the faint hum of the city below, I realized something important—

Sometimes, the most painful endings are just quiet beginnings in disguise.