Chapter 3

Over the next few days, Ethan and I settled into a cold war.

I left early and came home late, busy handing off my work, speaking with my attorney on the phone, and searching online for commercial spaces in Vermont.

Ethan spent every day orbiting Chloe—helping her prepare for her new job, celebrating her offer, and picking out professional clothes for the office.

We lived in the same Upper West Side apartment, yet moved past each other like ghosts.

On Friday afternoon, as I organized the last manuscript in my Flatiron District office, a sharp pain tore through my stomach.

The irregular meals and emotional strain of the past few days had triggered my chronic gastritis again.

I fought through the pain, called an Uber, and went to the nearest emergency room.

The nurse at the front desk handed me a stack of forms for my personal information, insurance details, and emergency contact.

My pen hesitated over the emergency-contact line.

Ethan Prescott’s name should have gone there.

My hand shook once before I crossed out the name I’d written by reflex. I replaced it with my mother’s name and the number for my parents’ home in Vermont.

After examining me, the doctor diagnosed an acute flare-up of gastritis with mild dehydration. He started IV fluids and gave me Zofran for the nausea.

I lay alone on a narrow bed behind a curtain, staring at the white ceiling as a married couple in the next bay argued in whispers—the wife scolded her husband for driving too fast, while he muttered that he’d slow down next time.

Another spasm twisted my stomach. Sweat dampened my forehead.

I closed my eyes and tried to ease the discomfort.

Then my phone rang.

It was Ethan.

For the first time in five days of silence, he had called me first.

I hesitated, then answered.

“Hello.”

My voice was weak.

“Claire, are you off work?”

Ethan sounded cheerful. The noisy background made it seem as though he was in a bar.

“I’m still out. What is it?”

“It’s Chloe’s first day, and her team is throwing her a welcome happy hour. Venmo me eight hundred dollars.”

“She wants to pick up the tab and make a good impression, but she doesn’t have enough money, and I left my company card at the office.”

He spoke as if the money were already his.

I looked at the needle in the back of my hand. A bitter laugh escaped me.

“I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what? Don’t you get off at five thirty?”

Irritation immediately crept into Ethan’s voice.

“Chloe just graduated. She doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“The senior people on her team expect her to pick up the tab. She can’t afford to embarrass herself on her first day.”

“She looks up to you. What’s wrong with spending a little money on the girl?”

I closed my eyes and gave another quiet laugh.

“Looks up to me?”

“Ethan, my money doesn’t grow on trees. I’m not obligated to support the girl you’ve decided to take under your wing.”

The other end of the line went silent for a beat.

Then Ethan’s voice shot up.

“Claire! Do you have to nickel-and-dime me right now?”

“I reached out first. How long are you going to keep acting like this?”

“Do you know Chloe screwed up her first client presentation today? Her manager pulled her aside and said she wasn’t ready for the position.”

“She’s so upset she’s about to cry. I’m just trying to cheer her up!”

Listening to his accusations made the pain in my stomach feel even worse.

“If she’s upset, go comfort her.”

“And leave me alone.”

I hung up and immediately silenced my phone.

The IV didn’t finish until nine that night.

The nurse removed the needle and told me to avoid spicy food and drink plenty of water. At discharge, the clerk told me my copay was a little over three hundred dollars.

I handed over my credit card, signed, and walked out of the emergency room alone.

The night air was bitter, and I pulled my coat tighter around me.

I called a car home, but the apartment was still completely dark.

Without turning on the lights, I went straight into the guest room.

Lying in bed, I checked my phone.

Ethan hadn’t called again or sent a message.

But I saw an Instagram post he’d uploaded five minutes earlier.

The photo had been taken in dim light.

Chloe stood in the middle of a crowd of young PR coworkers, holding an espresso martini and grinning at the camera.

Ethan sat beside her, watching her with the tenderness he had stopped showing me years ago.

The caption read, “I’ve watched this girl take her first steps into the professional world. Today was rough, but she’s strong. I’ll always support her.”

One of our mutual friends teased him in the comments.

“Defending Chloe again, Ethan? Doesn’t Claire get jealous?”

Ethan replied, “She knows Chloe is just a kid to me.”

I stared at that reply and almost laughed.

That was right. I wasn’t jealous at all.

Because I no longer cared.

I opened his Instagram profile and muted him. I didn’t unfollow him, but I would never see another one of his updates.

Then I emailed my attorney.

“Is the draft agreement ready? I want to move forward as soon as possible.”

The email went through.

I placed my phone facedown on the nightstand.

Manhattan still glittered outside the window, but it no longer felt like my city.