Chapter 2: Escape
“I can handle this on my own, thanks,” I mutter into the phone, as much to
convince myself as to tell Ethan.
Just as I’m about to hang up, Ethan suddenly calls my name. “Sophie, just go
home. I’ll explain everything later.”
“Explain what?” I almost say out loud. Just more bullsh*t lies to keep me on the hook like he’s done for years. Another round of “baby, she’s just a friend” or “you’re the only one that matters” while he’s out playing happy couple with his
precious Ava.
I end the call without a response and order an Uber to take me back to his luxury Upper East Side apartment–the place I’ve foolishly called home for years, even though my name isn’t on a single piece of paper connected to it.
Ethan doesn’t come back that night.
I’m kept awake by fireworks outside the window–some rich a**hole’s private party on a rooftop nearby. Each explosive pop makes me flinch, reminding me of the way my cheek still stings from the hospital’s antiseptic wipes. Unable to sleep, I grab my iPad and try to focus on sketching designs for the Tiffany–wannabe client who’s paying me obscene money for a custom engagement ring.
My finger accidentally brushes the Instagram icon in the corner. A post from an hour ago catches my eye immediately.
It’s from Ava–a perfectly filtered photo of fireworks lighting up the Manhattan skyline, champagne flutes in the foreground, and Ethan’s watch visible on a wrist at the edge of the frame. The caption makes my stomach turn:
“I’ve traveled halfway around the world, but I always come back to you, E. Back to
our fireworks, our champagne, and all those promises we whispered. You were worth every minute of the wait. #soulmates #finallybackin nyc #perfectnight”
I stare at it for what feels like forever, then realize with a jolt that I’m logged into Ethan’s Instagram account on my iPad.
I have zero interest in scrolling through their flirty comments and lovesick DMs. I
close the app immediately, my hands shaking.
By morning, the antibiotics have kicked in and I’m feeling stronger. I head to my
1/5
2:50 PM Thu 20 Mar
ค 42%
02
office downtown right on time.
My boss, Miranda–a forty–something New Yorker who curses like a sailor and dresses like she stepped out of Vogue–holds my resignation letter between her blood–red manicured nails. Her face falls when I tell her I’m moving to Switzerland
to get married.
“Without you, I’m losing my best g**damn designer,” she sighs, tossing the letter onto her glass desk. “And for what? To marry some Swiss banking bro you’ve never even f**ked? J**us, Sophie, I thought I taught you better.”
I don’t know what to say. Miranda’s been my mentor, my advocate, and sometimes. the closest thing I’ve had to a real friend in New York. So I just hug her, breathing in her signature Jo Malone perfume, thanking her for giving a chance to a naive girl from Connecticut with a portfolio full of dreams.
Word spreads fast. By lunch, my coworkers know I’m leaving, and they’re insistent on taking me out for a farewell dinner.
I don’t refuse, and immediately book a table at Ethan’s favorite steakhouse. Not because it holds special memories, but because my knowledge of Manhattan restaurants is pathetically limited to places he’s taken me.
During dinner, I excuse myself to use the bathroom. Of course, because the universe f**king hates me, I run straight into Ava.
She smiles with fake sweetness, deliberately blocking my path. “Oh my God, if it isn’t the babysitter’s club!” Her perfectly manicured hand touches my arm. “So random seeing you here. Ethan and I had our third date at this place back in college. God, we’ve probably dropped thousands of dollars here over the years.” She tosses her hair, her diamond earrings catching the light. “This place is like… our spot.”
I force a tight smile and try to get past her, not feeling any obligation to make small talk with the woman who’s celebrating my replacement.
But she’s not done. She steps closer, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper. “I noticed something last time. Ethan always rinses the shrimp for you before serving it. Are you sensitive to spicy food too?”
2/5
2:59 PM Thu 20 Mar
42%
02
That single word-“too“-makes me pause.
The truth is, I actually love spicy food. But Ethan has always insisted on rinsing my shrimp, claiming “it’s too much heat for your system” or some other bullsh*t about
how “ladies shouldn’t eat food that makes them sweat.”
I always thought he was being protective of me. Now I see it was just muscle
memory from years of doing it for Ava.
The person who can’t handle spice is Ava, not me.
Seeing my silence, she leans in closer, the scent of her expensive perfume almost suffocating me. Her eyes scan my face like she’s appraising merchandise.
“You know,” she whispers, her voice dripping with false intimacy, “ever since Ethan first brought you around, I’ve been dying to ask—has anyone ever told you that
you look just like me? Just a younger, less polished version?” She laughs lightly. “I
mean, it’s so obvious why he picked you. You’re basically me with training wheels.”
I’ve never felt more humiliated in my life. I feel like I might throw up right there on her designer shoes. I push past her and practically run back to our private dining room, her satisfied smirk burning in my memory.
Back with my colleagues, their laughter and warmth slowly thaws the ice in my
veins.
Just as I’m starting to relax again, the door to our private room swings open. Ethan stands there, momentarily surprised at the sight of two tables full of people.
His eyes scan the crowd and lock directly onto me.
When our eyes meet, I see barely contained rage simmering beneath his surface. I have no idea what I’ve done wrong.
He clenches his fist and calls my name, ordering me to come outside.
Confused, I follow him into the hallway, where he suddenly slaps me hard across
the face.
It’s the first time he’s ever hit me.
I stare at him in shock, but there’s no guilt or hesitation in his eyes–only pure fury.
“Why the f**k did you push Ava?” he growls. “You knew her ankle was injured. I
told
3/5
2:59 PM Thu 20 Mar
42%
02
you I’d explain things later, but you had to go and act like a jealous b**ch?”
My cheek burns from the impact.
From down the hall, Ava limps toward us.
Her blouse is rumpled and wet, with dirty smudges on it.
open my mouth to explain that I never touched her, but before I can speak, she dramatically collapses to the floor.
Ethan shoves me aside without a second thought and rushes to gather her in his
arms.
“What are you doing out here?” he scolds her gently. “I said I’d bring her to
apologize to you.”
Though his words sound stern, his voice is dripping with concern.
Ava shakes her head, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s not a big deal. I’m sure she
didn’t mean it. Don’t be so hard on her.”
Then she plays her trump card: “If her brother finds out you hit her, it could ruin your friendship with him.”
At the mention of my brother, something flickers in Ethan’s eyes. But when he
looks back at Ava, his resolve hardens.
“Her brother entrusted her to me. If she does something wrong, I have every right
to correct her behavior.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “What exactly did I do? Even criminals get due process. You’re accusing me and hitting me without a shred of evidence. Have you ever considered you might be wrong?”
Ethan clenches his fists, glaring at me. “You knew there are no security cameras in the bathroom. That’s why you felt safe attacking her in there.”
I find his logic both laughable and painfully hurtful.
“If there are no cameras, how can you be so sure I did anything?” I challenge him.
“Are you suggesting Ava would make this up? She’d need a reason to lie about you. I’ve known her for years–she’s not the type to lie.”
“So I’m the liar by default?”
4/5
2:59 PM Thu 20 Mar
4210
02
After seven years together, I thought Ethan would at least trust my character. But I was wrong. When Ava is involved, those seven years mean nothing. Her word alone is enough to condemn me, enough to leave me with no defense. This isn’t just favoritism–it’s blind devotion.
And I’m nothing but a temporary replacement, a poor substitute who never
mattered.
There’s no point arguing further. Ignoring Ethan’s angry shouts, I turn and walk
away.
With the mark of his hand still red on my face, I don’t want to ruin my colleagues‘ night. Instead of returning to the private room, I go to the front desk and pay the
entire bill.
I text everyone that something came up and I had to leave, telling them to enjoy
themselves–dinner’s on me.
Dragging my exhausted body back to the apartment, I punch in the door code- his birthday, because of course it is–and find myself looking at this place I’ve
called home for seven years with new eyes.
Every corner holds memories of Ethan and me together. The kitchen island where we’ve had s*x countless times. The shower where he first told me he loved me. The couch where we’ve spent hundreds of nights tangled together watching movies. What I once thought was beautiful now feels like knives stabbing into my heart. Seven years of my life, and what do I have to show for it? Not even a drawer with my name on it. Not a single framed photo of us together on display when guests
come over.
I realize now I’ve been living in a beautiful, luxurious prison of my own making. And Ethan has always held the key.
