Chapter 1My Ex Was My Best Investment

Standing on that familiar street corner for the third time, the fog finally lifted.

The marriage contract—that piece of paper I’d treated like a holy relic—was worthless. Ewan was right about that. But what he never understood was that those four words of his, tossed out like spare change, had cost me two separate lifetimes of youth.

The same "chance" encounters. The same blurred lines and late-night invitations. I was foolish enough to say yes twice. He used to praise me for being "sensible," for my "grace," and my "boundless patience." Then he’d turn around and use those very virtues as a blade to gut every promise he ever made.

"A title is just a piece of paper," he told me—twice. And both times, I walked away with nothing, not even a fake identity to cling to. I realized too late that some forms of tenderness aren't a sanctuary; they’re just the knife you sharpen for your own throat.

* * *

By the third time I "accidentally" ran into Ewan, I was nearly thirty.

In the eyes of the world, that’s the age where you’re supposed to stop being reckless. You’re supposed to have figured out that fire burns. And yet, there I was, thirty years old, standing on the edge of the Pacific, watching the tide come in.

It wasn't raining. The sun was mild, filtered through a haze of gray clouds, but I still held my umbrella up like a shield. Ewan stood beside me, draped in a cashmere overcoat that cost more than most people’s cars.

"So, you actually came," he said.

I didn't answer. I just watched the water. The setting sun hit the waves, turning the ocean into a sheet of hammered gold, shimmering and restless. A breeze kicked up, and I caught his scent.

Spring Embers.

It was the fragrance I had custom-blended for him years ago. I hadn't expected him to still be wearing it.

I felt a ghost of a tremor in my hands as he continued, "Does this mean what I think it means?"

Does it? I didn't know.

I just remembered two years ago, when I’d burned our world down in a fit of rage and left him for the second time. Ewan had just caught my wrist, his expression maddeningly calm, and tucked a stray hair behind my ear with a smile.

"When the regret hits you, go back to where we first met," he’d whispered. "I’ll be there to pick you up."

Back then, I thought that was love. I thought it was his way of saying he’d always wait for me.

Now, I saw the truth. He didn't care why I screamed, and he didn't care why I left. He just wanted to witness my eventual surrender. He was addicted to the sight of me regretting my independence because he was certain I couldn't survive without him.

When I didn't offer an answer, he didn't push. He never did. He just said, "Walk with me."

He didn't wait for a reply. He just started walking. I watched his silhouette for a moment, then looked at the sun dipping below the horizon. Then, I followed.

I did regret leaving. But not for the reasons he thought. I regretted leaving because, when I walked away, I hadn't taken a single cent of what he owed me.