Chapter 2

"The manufacturer confirmed the swing chair will arrive next Wednesday. The steel cables are aviation-grade and can hold up to four hundred pounds. I tested it myself."

Ethan didn’t even change his shoes when he walked in. He shoved his phone right in front of my face. The screen showed a 3D rendering of a white hanging basket chair.

I was washing dishes in the kitchen, the faucet running.

He held the phone closer. "We can add a woven rattan fence around the base. Didn’t you say you’re afraid of heights? With the fence, you won't feel suspended at all."

How thoughtful.

Because what a person with severe acrophobia needs most is a swing chair suspended two meters high, wrapped in a rattan fence.

"I won't sit on it."

"Here we go again." He laughed, wrapping his arm around my waist. "You can just watch me sit on it from the living room. Just treat it as decor. It looks nice."

Decor.

Three hours ago, I had just returned from the sales gallery. My name had been crossed out, stroke by stroke, from the purchase contract. The agent’s ballpoint pen had left a harsh blue ink smear.

And here he was, still picking out color swatches.

I turned off the faucet.

"Ethan, did you look at Chloe’s Instagram today?"

His hand on my lower back froze.

It wasn't guilt. It was the reflexive irritation of someone having a name brought up that he thought was long buried.

"What Instagram?"

"Her finsta. The post from five years ago."

He let go of me and leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Why were you snooping through her Instagram?"

"The algorithm recommended it."

"So, you spent the middle of the night digging through my ex-girlfriend’s private account, found a five-year-old comment, and now you’re interrogating me?"

He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of beer, and popped the tab with a sharp crack.

"Sienna, you’re twenty-six years old."

That sentence sounded uglier than any excuse he could have made.

He didn’t say I was petty. He didn’t say I was throwing a tantrum. He just reminded me of my age, implying that my behavior was too immature for twenty-six.

"That swing chair is Chloe’s favorite thing."

"It’s also something I find aesthetically pleasing. Do those two things have to conflict?"

"You know damn well I’m terrified of heights."

"That’s why I added the fence." He took a sip of beer and tapped the can against the counter. "Sienna, I’m already compromising here. You can’t keep pushing me."

Compromise.

Slapping a band-aid on something that shouldn't have been there in the first place is what he called a compromise.

"Let’s break up."

The TV was playing a home renovation show. The designer was talking about maximizing balcony space.

Ethan took a bite of a watermelon slice, chewing slowly.

"Just because of a chair?"

"Because that chair was meant for Chloe."

"She casually mentioned she liked it years ago, and I thought the design was good, so I added it to the layout. Are you seriously taking this so out of proportion that you want to break up?"

He stood up, towering over me.

"You put down three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the down payment. You're just going to throw that away?"

"Yes. I don’t want it anymore."

"Sienna." His voice dropped, a dangerous undercurrent rising. "Take those words back right now, and I’ll pretend I didn’t hear them. If you keep pushing this, it won’t be about the chair anymore."

It wasn't about the chair.

It was about me.

It was always about me.

My phone rang. It was Harper.

The moment I picked up, she exploded.

"Sienna, did you see that Instagram post? I took a screenshot—"

"I saw it. Help me book a moving company for tomorrow. I don’t have much. One trip will do."

I hung up.

Ethan’s expression finally shifted.

"Why are you moving?"

"To pack my things."

"Moving where?"

I didn't answer.

The key in my bag pressed hard against my knuckles. A 1,500-square-foot luxury penthouse, paid in full. The cold metal felt like an anchor of pure relief.

He stared at me for five seconds, then smirked.

"Fine. Go ahead and throw your tantrum. Let me know when you’ve had enough."

He turned, walked into the bedroom, and slammed the door shut.

I leaned against the counter, hearing him turn on his iPad almost immediately. The sound of a video leaked through the gap under the door.

He didn't care at all.

A few minutes later, his voice drifted out from behind the door.

"Don't forget to go to the leasing office this weekend to sign the final renovation approval. Both of us need to be there. Don't forget."