2

Collapsing to my knees, I clutch at my hair, fingers tangling in the strands as if to anchor myself to reality. The weight of Ethan's deception crushes me, leaving me gasping for air amidst the wreckage of our shattered marriage. 

Every sound of their exchange feels like a cruel echo of my own naivety, a reminder that I was nothing more than a pawn in his game. As Ethan's footsteps echo up the stairs, each one carries the weight of our broken trust.

Ethan never loved me! 

We got involved a few years ago. I was a young girl trying to make it in the big city. He was a famous billionaire. I tried to do the right thing at the time, but the right thing was to betray Ethan's trust.

I did it.

I paid the price for it.

**

The relentless rain in Los Angeles mirrors the turmoil in my heart as I shuffle towards the kitchen. Each drop that splatters against the windowpane echoes the tears I've shed since discovering the bitter truth about my three-year marriage — a illusion crumbling before my eyes.

As I step into the kitchen, I take in the warm greeting from Jena, the cook. "Good morning, love. I will make the coffee today," she offers with a smile. 

I shake my head, mustering a small smile of gratitude. "No, thank you, Jena. I will take care of it," I reply softly. 

She nods understandingly and exits the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the soothing sound of rain tapping against the windows.

Tomorrow is Ethan's 32nd birthday, and I can't help but feel a spark of excitement. Despite everything, there's a glimmer of hope as I anticipate the big celebration. 

These gatherings always have a certain charm to them, especially when Ethan wraps his arm around my waist, if only for the cameras. It's those fleeting moments that make me believe in the facade of our love, if only for a little while.

I prepare two cups of coffee and start making toast. 

The heavy thud of footsteps echoes down the staircase, sending a shiver down my spine. I know it's my husband, Ethan, making his descent.

Ethan enters the kitchen, his aura commanding attention without him uttering a word. Standing tall and strong, his presence fills the room with an undeniable magnetism. 

His sleek, jet-black hair falls effortlessly, framing his face in a way that accentuates his chiseled features. His eyes, a piercing shade of azure blue, seem to shimmer with a depth that draws you in, leaving you captivated by their intensity. 

Every movement he makes is deliberate, exuding a sense of confidence and allure that is impossible to ignore. Ethan furrows his brow slightly, as if he didn't expect to see me.

"Good morning!" I chirp, mustering up a facade of cheerfulness. 

Despite the gnawing realization that Mariah Donovan is likely occupying his thoughts and bed, I refuse to let it dampen my spirits. After all, tomorrow is his birthday, a day where I will stand by his side, adorned in elegance, and be acknowledged as Mrs. Banks. 

"I made the coffee," I offer, motioning towards the steaming cup on the counter.

Ethan settles into a chair, his attire immaculate as always — perfectly tailored jeans hugging his frame, a crisp white shirt accentuating his strong physique, and a sleek leather jacket completing the ensemble.

"Are you heading out?" I ask, my tone betraying a hint of curiosity and apprehension.

"I have a test race today. I will be back late," he informs me.

"Can I come watch you race?" I try my luck.

I always look forward to attending his races, but he seldom lets me accompany him. He explains that photographers and journalists are constantly present, and he prefers to keep his personal life out of the headlines. But I know the truth: Ethan doesn't want to give me the pleasure of being seen as his wife.

"It'll be swarming with photographers. It's better not to," he replies.

I lower my head. It's always the same response. But I would love to grace the cover of a magazine as Ethan Banks's wife. Yet the only thing he allows to grace magazine covers are his achievements and victories. 

Apparently, I am none of those to Ethan.

"Please," I press, a note of desperation creeping into my voice.

"Ask the driver to take you later then," he suggests, his tone cold and dismissive.

Ethan doesn't even glance at the coffee I prepared for him. Instead, he immerses himself in his phone, his brows furrowed in concentration. It's clear he has no intention of engaging in further conversation.

"I can go with y..." My words falter as Mariah saunters into the kitchen, her presence casting a chilling shadow over the room.

She looks even more beautiful than I remembered. Her hair is haphazardly tied up in a messy bun on top of her head, and her eyes seem tired, with faint traces of sleep evident. 

Draped in one of Ethan's shirts, it hangs loosely on her slender figure, accentuating her delicate features. As I observe her, a wave of sadness and insecurity washes over me, highlighting the stark contrast between her effortless allure and my own perceived inadequacy.

"Good morning," Mariah greets.

She approaches, her fingers lingering on Ethan's shoulder in an intimate gesture, and she casts a smile in my direction, as if the events of the previous night hadn't unfolded between her and my husband.

"Good morning. Did you sleep well?" Ethan asks.

"Too well. You could've woken me up," she jokes. 

I watch it all unfold as if I am not even here. 

"We didn't greet each other last night, Blair. I'm sorry, I arrived so late," she says with a hint of acidity in her tone, her words dripping with subtle condescension.

"I can imagine," my voice barely above a whisper, feeling a pang of insecurity wash over me.

"It's been so many years since we last met," she smiles.

Mariah grabs the coffee cup, her grip tight and deliberate. With a flick of her wrist, she brings the cup to her lips, taking a long sip. Then, with a sudden jerk, she forcefully expels the liquid, aiming it directly at me. 

The scalding hot coffee splashes across my clothes, searing my skin with its heat. The shock of the attack renders me speechless, my heart pounding in my chest as I struggle to comprehend the humiliation of the moment.

"I am so, so sorry," Mariah raises her hands in a mocking gesture of innocence. "I am really sorry, but that coffee was awful!"