Chapter 2The Mango Clause

When I woke up the next morning, there were no missed calls, no unread messages from Ethan.

I wasn't even angry.

After the doctor gave me the all-clear, I went straight home.

The 5,000-square-foot luxury villa was something we'd bought with cash last year. A world away from seven years ago, when we were fresh out of college, sharing a single packet of instant noodles in a cramped basement apartment. Or five years ago, on our wedding day, when we celebrated with a cheap meal at a hole-in-the-wall diner and a tiny four-inch cake.

Now, here I was, alone in this cavernous house, left to lick my wounds.

I supposed I would get used to it.

I was reviewing the divorce papers my lawyer had sent over when Ethan walked in, bringing with him the heavy scent of rose perfume.

The fragrance hit me like a physical blow. Ethan had sensitive skin, allergic to most cosmetics. He despised perfume. For years, I had forgone all skincare products, even choosing my shampoo with meticulous care, just for him.

Apparently, his strict rules only applied to me.

He saw me on the couch with my tablet and paused.

"Phoebe was a little too excited at the party last night," he explained, "she got drunk and took a fall, so I took her home. It was late, and she lives far out, so I just grabbed a hotel nearby instead of coming to the hospital to get you."

I nodded, canceling another one of our company's supplier contracts on my tablet. "Okay. I understand," I said without looking up.

Ethan seemed thrown off. This clearly wasn't the reaction he'd been expecting.

He hesitated, then took a few steps closer. "It's Saturday, you should take a break from work. I'm planning to take Phoebe to Paris. Do you want to come with us?"

Seven years ago, on my birthday, Ethan and I had taken a cheap, five-dollar photo at a night market. Standing in front of a tacky Eiffel Tower backdrop, he swore that one day, when we had money, he would take me to the real Paris and we would recreate that exact photo.

As our home grew bigger and the company more successful, he only got busier. He'd placate me time and time again.

"Elara, this is a critical growth period for the company."

"As the CEO, I can't just take off on a vacation abroad."

"You're the most understanding person I know. You get it, right?"

I did get it. So I stopped mentioning Paris and threw myself into the business, helping to build his empire.

But apparently, if Phoebe wanted to go, he was free.

I opened the next client's email, my tone unchanging. "Three's a crowd. I'm not interested."

For some reason, he seemed to let out a sigh of relief. "Alright. I just need to grab something, and then I'm off. You're on your own for lunch; we'll have dinner together tonight."

He paused, his expression turning serious. "This new contract is crucial for our overseas expansion. I've invited the media for a press conference on Monday. Didn't you always want to stand by my side, officially? This is your chance. You should prepare…"

He looked at me intently. "Don't worry. I'll introduce you properly this time. I won't let Phoebe cause any trouble."

I glanced up at him, my face a blank mask.

I knew what this was: his compensation for last night's cruelty.

Fine by me. It would take a few days for the cancellation of the European contract to be processed anyway.

Announcing it at his press conference seemed fitting.