Chapter 3: The Slip of the Tongue

A few days later, my phone rings. It's Ethan. His voice is laced with a practiced panic that makes my skin crawl.

'Ava, it's Chloe,' he says. 'There was an accident. She fell and hit her head. We're on our way to the emergency room.'

A family demonstration that went wrong, I guess. A message sent to a rival that grazed an Associate. I feel a profound, chilling nothing.

'Is she okay?' I ask, my voice a perfect imitation of concern. I've become a very good actress.

'I don't know. I need you to meet me there,' he says. 'Please.'

The plea is part of the show. The worried fiancé turning to his forgotten love in a time of crisis.

I go because the part I'm playing requires it.

I find him in the waiting room, pacing dramatically while Chloe gets examined. He's putting on a performance for the nurses, for his Soldiers lingering by the doors, talking about what a dear friend she is.

He's trying to elevate her status, to make her seem important enough to warrant the future Don's personal attention.

My phone buzzes.

A calendar reminder flashes across the screen.

'Ethan - Neurology Follow-up.'

It's a routine appointment for any high-ranking family member, a check on his most important asset: his mind. A mind that's supposedly damaged.

I walk over to him, keeping my expression soft.

'Ethan, you have your neuro appointment in an hour.'

He waves a dismissive hand.

'Cancel it. I can't leave Chloe. This is an emergency.'

Loyalty is everything in our world. The Supremacy of Loyalty isn't a suggestion; it's a commandment. Loyalty to the family, to your role, to the future.

By choosing his affair over his responsibilities as heir, he was spitting on that commandment. He was telling everyone that his personal desires mattered more than the family itself.

Later, sitting alone in the waiting room, my phone begins lighting up with messages from an unknown number.

Photos.

Ethan and Chloe kissing in his car.

Ethan and Chloe in a nightclub, her hands all over him.

The images are timestamped over the last several weeks.

It's a deliberate attack, orchestrated by him and executed by her.

I stare at the screen without expression.

Then I delete every photo and block the number.

It feels like sweeping broken glass with bare hands.

But later, alone in my car, with the sterile smell of antiseptic still clinging to my clothes, a memory surfaces.

Ethan, two years ago, when I had the flu.

He stayed with me for three days.

He fed me soup, read books aloud, and refused to leave my side.

His concern had seemed genuine. Tender. Real.

Was that a lie too?

Was any of it real?

A sharp pain twists through my stomach.

The pain isn't for the man he is now.

It's for the trusting girl I used to be.

The Caged Canary who believed every promise he whispered.

For the first time since overhearing that video call, a single tear slides down my cheek.

It's hot with rage.

Not grief.

A funeral pyre for the fool I once was.

A week later, Maya drags me to a gallery opening.

And of course, they're there.

Ethan and Chloe, attached at the hip, his laughter echoing through the pristine white gallery.

He's flaunting her openly, challenging both his father's authority and my position.

He walks past me toward the bar.

'Red wine for you?' he asks automatically.

Then he freezes.

'Oh. Sorry. I forgot.'

But he hadn't forgotten.

Not really.

I'm allergic to red wine, a detail buried beneath seven years of memories he supposedly doesn't have.

For one dangerous second, my heart stutters with hope.

Then he turns back toward Chloe, handing her the glass as if nothing happened.

His expression becomes blank once more.

The perfect amnesiac.

The perfect liar.

It doesn't matter.

One slip of the tongue changes nothing.

His manipulation is a game I'm no longer willing to play.