Chapter 4

Chloe's POV

The moment I reached the media company's building, I saw Ethan's car.

He stepped out, showing no surprise at seeing me, as if he had anticipated my arrival all along.

"I'll handle the photo," he said. "Go back. Stop making a scene."

"How are you going to handle it?"

He answered nonchalantly, "Suppress it. Retract the article, kill the trending topics, make up an excuse so people gradually forget about it. In a few days, nobody will remember who you are."

I looked at him.

I came here today hoping for a printed correction stating clearly that the woman in the side hall that night was named Chloe Hayes.

All he wanted was to make everyone forget this face.

My voice tightened. "Your idea of 'handling it' is just sweeping it under the rug until everyone forgets, leaving me in the dark forever. Ethan, I don't want it suppressed! I want to tell everyone clearly that I'm not the kind of person they claim I am!"

He furrowed his brows. "Tell them? What do you want to say? Stand in the street and scream that you're Ethan Vance's woman? Chloe, you might not care about your reputation, but I care about mine."

Reporters from that outlet were already waiting near the entrance, craning their necks to watch.

Ethan cast a glance their way.

He turned around and addressed the staff at the entrance, raising his voice just enough for everyone to hear: "This lady is a distant relative of the Vance family. She's been ill for years, and her mental state is unstable. You can't take anything she says seriously. Revise your piece according to this narrative. From now on, whatever she says, disregard it completely."

The employees nodded profusely.

One of them bowed slightly and piped up, "If family says so, what else is there to ask? We'll change it right away, right away."

Another scrambled to add, "Whatever Mr. Vance instructs, we wouldn't dare disobey."

Panic surged through me, and I took a step forward. "I'm not sick! Everything I say is the truth—"

The man turned to Ethan with an obsequious smile. "You see, here she goes again. We'll definitely revise it just as you said, sir."

My mouth hung open, but not a single sound came out.

The way those people looked at me was the way one looked at a psychiatric patient.

Every word I added only served as proof that my "mental state was unstable."

Ethan said, "Make the correction clear. Don't let her wander out and scare people again."

Someone walked past me, treading lightly, and even smoothed back a strand of hair blown across my forehead, treating me like a troublesome child.

I stood rooted to the spot.

I used to think the hardest thing was having no one speak up for me.

Today, I realized there was something far worse.

From this moment on, no one would believe a single word I spoke for myself.

Wherever I went, whenever I spoke, all people would hear were the ravings of a madwoman.

Being dragged out by guards, being cursed at—I could endure all of that.

With just one sentence, he had completely strangled any voice I had left.

Ethan took me back to corporate headquarters, leading me into the lounge next to his executive office and telling me to sit down.

He said, "Wait here. Don't go anywhere."

He shut the door and walked out without looking back once.

I didn't stay seated.

Pressing against the door, I pushed it open just a crack.

He was only two steps away in front of his desk, his back turned to me as he talked on the phone.

I couldn't hear what the person on the other end was saying, but his own voice was crystal clear, composed and steady.

He claimed that Brooke was the one who had stayed up with him through those grueling nights dealing with investors years ago.

He claimed that the person who supported him home from drunken business dinners was Brooke.

He claimed that during his hardest times over the years, the person by his side from start to finish had always been Brooke.

My hand gripping the doorframe went completely cold.

Those sleepless nights with bloodshot eyes were spent by me.

The drinks downed on his behalf were drunk by me.

After drinking them, I threw up all night long.

When he was curled up in the hospital hallway recognizing no one, I was the one holding his hand, refusing to leave.

The night his family pressured him to negotiate a marriage with the Sterlings, I was the one who sat by his side until sunrise.

He was afraid of the dark—a habit left over from his childhood in the orphanage.

All these years, every night he claimed he was working late, I was the one waiting under the lamp.

Only the two of us knew these things; he remembered them.

I had held onto those memories as proof that I hadn't been replaced.

Now, he had personally credited every single one of those moments to someone else.

I slid down the doorframe slowly until I hit the floor.

Outside the window, the sky darkened gradually. The office lights were off, but he continued chatting warmly on the phone.

Only now did I realize that every humiliation I had suffered over the years...

He had known about it all. He had personally orchestrated it.

While the people downstairs were editing their articles, he was busy swapping out my identity inside this room.

Sitting on the floor, I suddenly started laughing.

As I laughed, tears streamed down my face.

Through the crack in the door, his voice remained steady, flowing sentence after sentence.