Chapter 2

"Chloe, how long have you been standing out there?"

Ethan’s voice held no surprise, only the annoyance of having his plans disrupted.

Julian Beck—his dear partner—remained perfectly calm, lounging on the leather sofa with his legs crossed.

"Well, you're just in time, Chloe. Saves Ethan the trouble of bringing it up."

"No need to bring it up."

I leaned my bicycle against the doorframe. "Do you have the divorce papers ready? If not, I can wait for you to print them."

Ethan clearly hadn't expected this reaction from me.

He probably thought I would cry, demand answers, or even beg to stay.

After all, in his own words—who else would take in a girl with zero friends?

"Are you sure you've thought this through?" He walked over to his desk, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Three years of marriage taught me exactly what that gesture meant: his decision was final, and the rest was just legal formality.

"More than sure. But I do have one question—the eighty thousand, is that pre-tax or post-tax?"

Julian let out a sharp chuckle.

Ethan didn't laugh.

His gaze swept over my face as if he were cataloging a piece of office equipment about to be decommissioned.

"Chloe, my lawyer will send you the agreement later today. But let's be clear about one thing: you signed an NDA. You are not allowed to utter a single word about Harrison Group's business secrets, including the audits you performed."

"Does that include who was cooking the books?"

"It includes everything."

Wow. He was completely shutting my mouth.

Just as I was about to reply, Julian stood up and adjusted his silver cufflinks. I had watched him make that gesture for three years—he always did it right before saying something venomous, like firing a starting pistol for himself.

"Don't feel too bad, Chloe. Last week, the company officially hired Dr. Valerie Stone. She has a Ph.D. in Criminal Psychology from Columbia University and specializes in micro-expression analysis. Actual science."

He put heavy emphasis on the word "science."

"From now on, Harrison Group's risk assessment won't have to rely on..."

He paused.

"...alternative medicine."

Alternative medicine.

Three years ago, Ethan's mother had practically knelt in my tiny rented room, crying and begging me to be the savior of the Harrison family.

Three years later, I was dismissed as mere "alternative medicine."

As he uttered that word, Julian let out a hiccup.

It was very faint, bubbling up from the depths of his throat. He didn't even notice it.

But I heard it.

That hiccup meant he didn't actually believe I was just "alternative medicine." He knew my abilities were real.

But he chose to drag me through the mud anyway.

"Fine." I picked up the pen from the desk, spent two minutes flipping to the last page of the NDA, and signed my name.

As Ethan took the document, my phone buzzed. He had wired me eighty thousand dollars. The memo read: *Thank you for your hard work over the past three years.*

No "thank you" in person.

No "I'm sorry."

He didn't even bother with the polite "overseas restructuring" excuse anymore.

Stepping out of the study, the hallway felt just as long as ever.

Halfway down, I saw two maids carrying cardboard boxes out of the side door, their movements practiced and swift.

My things.

They had started packing before I even knew.

This wasn't a sudden decision; it was a rehearsed play. They had probably practiced when to tell me and what expressions to use in front of a mirror. I had just caught them early.

"Mrs. Harrison, your things are all here."

Two boxes. I had moved in with two boxes three years ago, and I was leaving with the exact same two.

I carried the boxes out through the wrought-iron gates.

The June evening breeze blew through the maple trees, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass.

The gate clicked shut behind me. The sound of the latch sliding into place was soft, like a "goodbye" that was never meant to be spoken aloud.

Sitting on the curb, I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts.

Only three names: Victoria Harrison, the butler, and the food delivery guy I'd used for three years.

When Ethan said "she’s a girl with zero friends, who would ever stand up for her," he hadn't hiccuped. It was the absolute truth—and that was why it cut straight to the bone.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled up a number I had kept in my favorites folder for a month: the direct line to the Sterling Group.

On the document wall in Ethan's study, there was a competitor analysis report labeled "Top Secret." I had glanced at it while organizing the files. The Sterling Group was currently being bled dry by internal fraud and was on the verge of collapse.

I dialed. It rang four times.

"Hello, office of the CEO of Sterling Group."

"Transfer me to Asher Sterling. Tell him Ethan Harrison's ex-wife is calling."

Five seconds later, the call went through.

A man's voice came over the line—deep, slightly gravelly, carrying the exhaustion of someone who hadn't slept in days.

"Chloe Vance?"

He knew who I was.

"Mr. Sterling, I heard you're looking for someone to audit your books."

"You signed an NDA."

"I won't be auditing the Harrison Group," I said, holding the cardboard box tight against my knees. "I'll be auditing yours."

Silence stretched over the line for two seconds.

When Asher spoke again, his tone completely changed, like a match being struck in a pitch-black room.

"Tomorrow morning, 9:00 AM, 32nd floor. Don't be late."

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