Chapter 3
Six months later. New York.
I'd restarted my medical residency, moved into a small apartment in Brooklyn, and hadn't spoken to Ethan once.
Not that he didn't try.
The first month: forty-seven calls, twenty-two texts, three emails through David.
The second month: flowers delivered to my parents' house—my mother sent them back.
The third month: a letter. Handwritten. Six pages. I burned it without reading past the first line.
*"Olivia, you're being unreasonable—"*
Unreasonable. His favorite word for me.
By month four, he stopped. I assumed Serena had fully replaced me—as publicly as she'd always existed in his heart.
I was wrong.
On a Tuesday morning, I walked into the hospital break room and found my colleague Grace shoving her phone in my face.
"Olivia! Look at this—Ethan Cole is in New York. Some tech conference. God, he's gorgeous."
I poured coffee without reacting. "Hmm."
"Aren't you from San Francisco? Did you ever run into him? His girlfriend is that model—Serena Voss. But rumor says they broke up last month."
My hand paused on the coffee pot. "Broke up?"
"Yeah! His company released a statement. 'Mr. Cole and Ms. Voss have mutually decided to part ways.' So vague, right? Everyone's speculating."
I sipped my coffee. It burned my tongue. Good—it reminded me I could still feel things.
"Not my business," I said.
Grace pouted but dropped it.
That night, I worked a double shift. At 2 AM, I stepped outside for air and nearly dropped my badge.
A black Maybach idled at the hospital entrance. And leaning against it, in a ten-thousand-dollar coat, looking like he hadn't slept in days—
Ethan.
He saw me before I could retreat. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach clench.
"Olivia."
His voice. God, his voice. Low, rough, cracked at the edges—like he'd been saying my name into empty rooms for months.
I gripped my badge. "You can't be here."
"I need to talk to you."
"The NDA says—"
"Forget the NDA." He stepped forward. "I made a mistake."
I stepped back. "Which one? There were so many."
He flinched. Actually flinched—Ethan Cole, who never showed weakness, who controlled boardrooms and billion-dollar deals, flinched at my words.
"The gala," he said. "Serena. All of it. I was—"
"Protecting her image? Maintaining appearances? Building your brand?" I kept my voice surgical. Clinical. "You were very thorough."
"I was wrong."
"Yes." I turned toward the hospital doors. "You were. Goodnight, Ethan."
"I haven't signed the divorce papers."
I froze.
My blood turned to ice, then fire, then ice again.
"What?"
He reached into his coat and pulled out the documents—my signature on the last page, his line still blank.
"I never signed them. We're still married."
I'd restarted my medical residency, moved into a small apartment in Brooklyn, and hadn't spoken to Ethan once.
Not that he didn't try.
The first month: forty-seven calls, twenty-two texts, three emails through David.
The second month: flowers delivered to my parents' house—my mother sent them back.
The third month: a letter. Handwritten. Six pages. I burned it without reading past the first line.
*"Olivia, you're being unreasonable—"*
Unreasonable. His favorite word for me.
By month four, he stopped. I assumed Serena had fully replaced me—as publicly as she'd always existed in his heart.
I was wrong.
On a Tuesday morning, I walked into the hospital break room and found my colleague Grace shoving her phone in my face.
"Olivia! Look at this—Ethan Cole is in New York. Some tech conference. God, he's gorgeous."
I poured coffee without reacting. "Hmm."
"Aren't you from San Francisco? Did you ever run into him? His girlfriend is that model—Serena Voss. But rumor says they broke up last month."
My hand paused on the coffee pot. "Broke up?"
"Yeah! His company released a statement. 'Mr. Cole and Ms. Voss have mutually decided to part ways.' So vague, right? Everyone's speculating."
I sipped my coffee. It burned my tongue. Good—it reminded me I could still feel things.
"Not my business," I said.
Grace pouted but dropped it.
That night, I worked a double shift. At 2 AM, I stepped outside for air and nearly dropped my badge.
A black Maybach idled at the hospital entrance. And leaning against it, in a ten-thousand-dollar coat, looking like he hadn't slept in days—
Ethan.
He saw me before I could retreat. His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach clench.
"Olivia."
His voice. God, his voice. Low, rough, cracked at the edges—like he'd been saying my name into empty rooms for months.
I gripped my badge. "You can't be here."
"I need to talk to you."
"The NDA says—"
"Forget the NDA." He stepped forward. "I made a mistake."
I stepped back. "Which one? There were so many."
He flinched. Actually flinched—Ethan Cole, who never showed weakness, who controlled boardrooms and billion-dollar deals, flinched at my words.
"The gala," he said. "Serena. All of it. I was—"
"Protecting her image? Maintaining appearances? Building your brand?" I kept my voice surgical. Clinical. "You were very thorough."
"I was wrong."
"Yes." I turned toward the hospital doors. "You were. Goodnight, Ethan."
"I haven't signed the divorce papers."
I froze.
My blood turned to ice, then fire, then ice again.
"What?"
He reached into his coat and pulled out the documents—my signature on the last page, his line still blank.
"I never signed them. We're still married."