The morning light bled weakly across the hardwood floor of Cole's office, tracing long golden lines that failed to warm the air. He sat behind his desk, a pen motionless in his hand, his gaze unfocused on the papers spread in front of him. Contracts. Deposition drafts. Deadlines. None of it mattered.
Not today.
Vivien had been gone since breakfast. "Meetings," she had said. Then lunch with a client. Then drinks. Then nothing.
Just silence.
There was a time he would have believed her without hesitation. A time when her word had been enough to settle his doubts before they could even form. That time was gone now—shattered beneath the weight of too many little lies, and Justin's voice, sharp and impossible to forget:
"You chose her, and you didn't even know her."
He pushed away from the desk and wandered out, feet carrying him not toward answers but toward something darker. He found himself standing in her office—sleek, spotless, smelling faintly of citrus and designer perfume.
He told himself he needed a phone charger.
But his hand moved on instinct.
The top drawer slid open with a soft hiss. Silk scarves, unopened lipsticks, a velvet pouch of essential oils. And beneath them, a worn leather folder.
He didn't hesitate.
It opened with a quiet snap, and out spilled the pieces of a life he hadn't known he was part of.
Receipts. Hotel keycards. Copies of itineraries.
Flight confirmations. Messages.
Photos.
His hands trembled as he sifted through them. The first name was familiar—a client he'd trusted. Then a rival attorney. A junior associate. A gallery curator from out of town. Each affair documented in crisp clarity, like chapters in a cruel biography. The dates stretched back years—neatly overlapping their reconciliation, their engagement.
Then came the texts.
He didn't want to read them.
But he did.
Dozens of messages. Smirking selfies. Lewd jokes. And then—her words. Cold. Clinical. Cutting.
"Playing house with Cole is like babysitting a broken toaster."
"The ex-actress still thinks she matters. Pathetic."
"He's so desperate to be needed, he doesn't even notice I'm bored out of my mind."
Each message splintered something inside him.
And he couldn't stop.
Wouldn't.
He devoured every word like poison, needing the sting, needing the confirmation that the life he'd built was hollow. That the love he'd clung to was a lie. That he hadn't just failed Jade. He had betrayed her in ways he hadn't even seen.
His knees gave out before he realized he was falling.
He sat there on the floor, the folder spilling beside him, the edges of the papers fluttering slightly from the AC kicking on. The sound was jarring in the silence, like a breath in a coffin.
Vivien's heels clicked across the marble hours later. Sharp. Purposeful. Unapologetic.
She paused in the doorway, framed by golden light like a specter in a dream.
He didn't move. Didn't look up at first. He was still seated on the floor, her phone in one hand—and in the other, a photograph. A wedding photo. Jade, smiling softly into the camera. Her eyes glassy with tears. With hope. With love.
When he finally looked up, his voice was hollow.
"Why?"
Vivien didn't blink. Didn't shift. She regarded him like an anthropologist observing a fallen creature.
And then—God help him—she smirked.
"Because it was easy," she said. "You were easy. You always were. So desperate to be seen. So obsessed with being in control, you never noticed when someone else was holding the strings."
She stepped inside, folding her arms across her tailored blouse.
"You never saw me. Not really. Not after you married her. You kept pretending you hadn't chosen. But you had. Even then. You just didn't want to admit it."
Her voice sharpened, barbed now.
"I wasn't the mistress, Cole. Jade was.
I was the one you were supposed to marry. I was only gone for a few days. Days.
And she crawled into your bed the moment I left."
He flinched. The image was cruel. And familiar.
"You didn't even realize you were already in love with her," she whispered. "But it doesn't matter anymore."
She crouched in front of him, face level with his.
"She's dead."
The words hit harder than any slap.
"And the truth is—she was already dying before she ever fell off that cliff."
Cole's breath caught.
Vivien's voice dropped to a murmur, soft and final.
"You killed her. Not with your hands. But with your silence.
With every dinner you ignored her.
Every time you looked through her.
Every time you chose me, even when she was breaking right in front of you."
His hands tightened around the photo. Jade's image warped with the pressure.
"I still love you," her voice whispered.
The voicemail.
The one he'd never played. Never opened. Left to rot in his inbox like a wound he refused to clean.
His thumb trembled over the screen.
Play.
Her voice came through—small, unsure, trembling with something that might have been hope or heartbreak. Maybe both.
"Hey. I… I know you're busy. And I probably shouldn't say this. But I just needed you to know—I still love you. Even if you never say it back."
Silence.
Then static.
Then nothing.
And finally—he broke.
Not like a man who had been betrayed.
Not like a man who had been lied to.
But like a man who had destroyed the only person who had ever truly loved him.