Bryon suddenly pushed open the door from the hallway, stopping dead in his tracks as he took in the scene.

Isabella gasped, feigning shock, and quickly crossed her arms over her chest, acting like a startled doe. "Bryon! You scared me! You didn't knock!"

"I'm sorry. I thought you were alone," Bryon muttered, his gaze lingering heavily on her exposed legs and the deep V of his own shirt against her skin. A dark, unmistakable flush of arousal crept up his neck. He quickly stepped back out, pulling the door shut behind him.

Watching the legendary, ruthless CEO of Briggs Group turn into a flustered schoolboy, Chloe let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"You two are unbelievable. Honestly, a pair of stray dogs in an alley have more shame than you," Chloe said, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips. She looked at Isabella with an expression of pure, unadulterated pity.

"Chloe, what the hell are you talking about?" Bryon's voice boomed as he pushed the door open again, his face red with anger, ready to defend his honor.

Slam.

Chloe didn't give him the chance. She walked past Isabella and slammed the living room doors shut right in his face, locking them from the inside.

He could stand out there and fume. She didn't care.

That night, Chloe didn't sleep. She dragged a heavy metal trash can into the center of her sparse bedroom. From the back of her closet, she pulled out a large, heavy wooden box.

Inside were the relics of her wasted youth. Specifically, five hundred and twenty charcoal sketches and candid photographs of Bryon. She had drawn them during the darkest year of his life, when a severe accident had left him temporarily blind. She had been the one to sit by his bed, to feed him, to read to him, to hold his hand when the panic set in. She had documented his recovery, pouring all her love into every stroke of the pencil.

One by one, she tossed them into the metal bin.

She struck a match and dropped it in.

The paper caught instantly. The flames leaped up, illuminating the stark walls of her room, turning twelve years of unrequited devotion into ash. The heat was intense, but it felt cleansing.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open. Bryon charged in, coughing as the acrid smell of smoke hit him. He saw the flames and didn't hesitate, grabbing a heavy wool blanket from the bed and smothering the fire in the bin.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" he roared, tossing the ruined blanket aside. "Are you trying to burn the house down and kill us all?"

"Don't worry, Bryon. I value my life far too much to end it with you," Chloe said coolly, stirring the remaining ashes with a metal coat hanger.

Bryon stared at her, breathing heavily. He looked down into the bin and saw the half-burned edge of a sketch. It was his own profile, drawn with meticulous care. He frowned, reaching his hand out to salvage it.

"Bryon! My stomach hurts! It hurts so much!" Isabella's dramatic wail echoed from down the hall.

Bryon's hand froze. He retracted it instantly, turning on his heel and sprinting out of the room like a man possessed. A few minutes later, Chloe heard the roar of his sports car tearing out of the driveway, rushing Isabella to the emergency room.

Good riddance, Chloe thought, finally lying down on her bed and closing her eyes.

...

The next morning, Chloe moved with mechanical precision.

She packed a single suitcase. Then, she walked into Bryon's expansive home office. On his mahogany desk sat a stack of subsidiary reports and project proposals that required his signature.

She slipped the printed divorce agreement right into the middle of the stack, aligning the edges perfectly. Since he refused to face it directly, she would use his own arrogance against him. He never read the fine print on routine paperwork.

Before leaving, she walked down the hall to check on Daisy.

The door was ajar. Isabella, miraculously cured of her stomach ailment, was asleep in the massive bed, her arms wrapped protectively around Daisy.

"Auntie Izzy, wake up. I want you to take me to school today," Daisy whined, shaking Isabella's shoulder. "I don't want Mommy to take me. Mommy isn't pretty like you."

"Just five more minutes, sweetie," Isabella mumbled, pulling the child closer.

Chloe stood in the doorway. She remembered when Daisy was three, the little girl had suddenly demanded to sleep in her own room, claiming she wanted to be a "big girl." Now Chloe realized it wasn't independence; it was disgust.

A sharp pain lanced through Chloe's chest, but she swallowed it down. She quietly pulled the door shut and walked away.

She handed Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, an envelope with a generous cash bonus, asking her to keep an eye on the documents in the study. Then, she walked out the front door.

Her best friend, Zara Shaw, was waiting in the driveway in a vintage convertible.

"I swear, that kid of yours is a little monster," Zara grumbled as Chloe got in. "Are you sure there wasn't a mix-up at the hospital? She acts exactly like Isabella. Maybe you should get a DNA test. You and Isabella were switched at birth, maybe the curse passed down."

"It's unlikely," Chloe said, staring blankly out the window. "The doctor who delivered her was a family friend. There was no mix-up."

"Then it's just Bryon's toxic genes overpowering yours. He's an ungrateful bastard, and so is his daughter. You literally nursed him back from blindness, and now he's treating you like garbage for Isabella? He's psychotic. Let me call my brother, he's a shark of a lawyer. We'll bleed Bryon dry."

"Not yet," Chloe said softly. "I just want it to be over."

As they drove toward the small apartment Chloe had kept from before her marriage, her phone rang. It was Leo Marino, a brilliant young conductor and her former peer at the conservatory.

"Chloe," Leo's voice crackled with excitement. "There's a private auction at Sotheby's this afternoon at three. One of the items is the 'Duport' Stradivarius cello. The one that was stolen from our mentor in Paris twelve years ago. Are you coming?"

Chloe didn't even hesitate. "Yes. I'll be there."