Chapter 3

Chloe's POV

Crossing to the other side of the street, I stopped again and turned to look back at those doors.

I stood there until the dead of night.

Brooke never came out, and neither did Ethan.

Leaning against the cold exterior wall, I waited until the horizon faded to a dull gray before straightening my legs.

I turned and headed back to my small apartment. Just as I was about to unlock the door, my phone rang—it was the landlord.

The landlord said, "Miss Hayes, Mr. Vance's side instructed that rent payments stop starting this month. Would it be convenient for you to move out in the next day or two?"

"Sure," I said. "I'll move out today."

I walked inside, sat on the edge of the bed, took out my phone, and opened my banking app.

A notification popped up: Insufficient Funds.

Refusing to give up, I tried again. The same message appeared.

I let out a self-deprecating laugh. "He cut it off so cleanly."

Yesterday on the steps, he said I was nothing without the Vance family, and today he proved it to me in action.

I gathered what little I had, packed it into a single canvas tote bag, and took a bus to another place.

It was the run-down little room Ethan and I had lived in years ago, where the paint was peeling off the walls. The landlady was Judy, an elderly woman with poor hearing. Judy didn't know who the Vances were, and she had never raised the rent.

Downstairs, Judy poked her head out and yelled, "Back already? Haven't seen you in years!"

I nodded, my throat tight. "I'm back, just visiting."

Judy gestured with her hands, shouting, "Where's that tall, handsome boy? The one who used to come with you!"

My hand gripping the canvas bag paused. "He's busy. He won't be coming anymore."

Judy sighed and yelled back, "Better that way! A person can live just fine on their own!"

My eyes stung. I crouched down and hugged Judy. "Thank you, Judy."

Judy patted my back, shoved two sandwiches into my hands, and said loudly, "Eat up, girl. Everything will pass."

Inside the room, I pulled out a chipped tin can from a metal box under the bed.

The lid was sealed tight. I pried it open with a key.

Inside were coins stacked neatly, one on top of the other.

Back when we were dirt poor, we crouched in front of this battered bed and made a pact: every month we got through, we would drop a coin into the can. When we reached forty, we would use the money to hold the simplest wedding, treating ourselves to a nice dinner to celebrate.

Over these past seven years, no matter what event he attended or how late he stayed out, that number was always in my heart: how many were left?

The outer paint of the can had been decorated by me with nail polish while he was fast asleep, carefully drawing a tiny little heart.

Looking at the pile of coins, I counted them one by one: "One, two, three..."

At the thirty-first coin, I stopped.

Thirty-one.

The month we put in the thirty-first coin, the Vance family found him. He was taken back, the wedding was shelved, and I waited another seven years.

All these years, counting those coins was my way of measuring how much longer until he would stand before the world and declare me his wife.

Now I knew: no one would ever add the rest for me.

Two million, one hundred and seventy thousand was the figure he announced in public, an amount I probably couldn't pay back in this lifetime.

All I had left in my hands were these thirty-one coins.

I spent the coins and kept the can.

I wiped the can clean and set it on the table.

Right then, my phone buzzed.

It was a push notification. Tapping it open revealed photos from the charity gala, accompanied by a glaring headline: Crazy Woman Obsessed with Elite Heir, Causes Scene in Public and Gets Hauled Away.

There were already thousands of comments underneath.

I couldn't resist typing a reply to defend myself: I'm not a crazy woman, I am—

Halfway through typing, I tried to delete it, but my finger trembled, and I accidentally hit send.

Almost instantly, vile insults flooded in one after another, accusing me of trying to extort him, calling me shameless.

I clicked on the latest comment and read it out loud: "Why doesn't a woman like this just go die?"

I flipped the phone face-down on the table, slumped over, and wept.

Burying my face in my arms, I whispered, "Why? Why does it have to be me?"

Nobody answered.

When I was hauled out of those doors, I thought only the dozens of people present had seen it.

Now, thousands of people recognized my face, knowing me only by the label "crazy woman." Not a single soul knew my actual name.

I wiped my face dry and walked over to the mirror.

The reflection showed swollen red eyes, but the gaze beneath was resolute.

I smoothed my hair in front of the mirror and said softly, "Chloe, stop hiding. This time, don't wait for him."

I was going to find the media outlet that published the photo and set the record straight in person—who I really was, and what actually happened that night.