Chapter 2

The next day, Ethan didn't show up at his attorney's office.

I waited for him two hours.

I called. He didn't answer.

It wasn't until eleven-thirty that he finally sent a message.

[Nora has her investor pitch today. Can't step away.]

The next one popped up right after.

[If you really want this divorce, file a petition yourself.]

I stood outside the attorney's building, still holding the unsigned papers.

Wind swept up from the street below, stinging my eyes.

I didn't reply. I went to the hospital.

The doctor said my mother's condition had worsened. Insurance had denied coverage for the experimental treatment she needed, and the out-of-pocket cost was crushing.

Without it, they could only keep her on the basic protocol.

"The family really needs to sort out the funding for the advanced treatment. The longer you wait, the greater the risk."

I looked down and said okay.

I listed my premarital studio apartment for an emergency sale and maxed out my credit cards.

The realtor went quiet for a few seconds when he heard my asking price.

"Ms. Thorne, this is way below market value."

"Can it close today?"

"It can, but—are you sure?"

I said:

"I'm sure."

After I hung up, I crouched in the hospital stairwell, palms slick with cold sweat.

A notification popped up on my phone.

Nora Chase had posted something new on Instagram.

In the photo, she stood on the pitch stage in a white blazer.

Ethan sat in the front row, looking up at her with a patience I hadn't seen from him in a very long time.

The caption read:

[Starting my first venture with someone who has my back. So this is what it feels like to be chosen.]

Someone commented below:

[Mr. Sinclair is so generous.]

Nora replied:

[He just said he didn't want to see me lose too badly.]

I stared at those words, my fingertips going cold inch by inch.

That afternoon, Ethan came to the hospital.

He stood in the corridor, suit impeccably pressed, holding a stack of papers.

"My assistant put this together. Loan platforms."

"A few of them have decent limits. Should help you bridge the gap."

I stared at the papers. I didn't take them.

He pressed them into my hands.

"The money situation—that's your call."

Then he turned and left.

I looked down at the loan application forms in my hands, tore them up one by one, and dropped the pieces into the trash.

A few minutes later, a nurse came running.

"Ms. Thorne, your mother's blood pressure is dropping. The doctor needs you to sign off immediately."

My legs buckled. I grabbed the wall just in time to keep from falling.

The pain in my lower abdomen flared again.

This time, sharper than last night.