After Ninety-Nine Confessions, I Ruined His Empire

Three days after my mother's funeral, I returned to the apartment with hollow eyes and a heart turned to stone. The service had been small—just a handful of her friends and colleagues, their faces blurred by my tears. Ethan hadn't shown. Not for the viewing, not for the service, not for a single moment when I needed him most.

I slipped my key into the lock, expecting the emptiness of our home to match the void inside me. Instead, laughter greeted me—feminine, light, and achingly familiar from countless social media videos I'd tortured myself with over the years.

Victoria White sat curled on our sofa—my sofa—her legs tucked beneath her as if she belonged there. Her glossy dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her red-bottomed heels lay discarded on my imported rug. Ethan lounged beside her, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, fingers dangerously close to her shoulder.

They both looked up when I entered, Victoria's smile faltering only slightly before returning with calculated brightness.

"Olivia," Ethan said, straightening. Not a hint of shame colored his tone. "You're back earlier than I expected."

I stood frozen in the entryway, my overnight bag still clutched in my hand. "I live here."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between us until Victoria laughed, the sound like breaking glass.

"I should give you two some privacy," she said, making no move to leave.

"No need," Ethan replied, standing. He approached me with the cautious air of someone approaching a stray dog. "Olivia, we need to talk."

He guided me toward the kitchen, his hand hovering near my elbow without actually touching me. Once we were partially obscured from Victoria's view, his expression hardened.

"Victoria needs a place to stay while she gets settled back in New York," he said, voice low. "I think it would be best if you found somewhere else to stay for a while."

The words hit me like physical blows. "You want me to leave my own home? Three days after burying my mother?"

"It's technically my apartment," he reminded me, though we both knew I'd paid half the rent for years. "And Victoria needs—"

"What about what I need?" My voice cracked, betraying the emotion I was desperate to hide. "My mother just died, Ethan. She died because of those messages Victoria sent her."

His jaw tightened. "That's a serious accusation, Olivia. Victoria said your mother had a heart condition. It was unfortunate timing, nothing more."

I pushed past him into the hallway, needing to escape his coldness before I shattered completely. "Where were you?"

"What?"

"The funeral. Where were you?"

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "I had work obligations. You know how it is with the Henderson account—"

"I saw your Instagram stories," I cut in, my voice deadly quiet. "You were in the Hamptons with her while I buried my mother alone."

Something flashed in his eyes—not guilt, but annoyance at being caught. "Olivia, you're emotional right now. We can discuss this when you're thinking clearly."

I turned away, tears threatening to spill. My gaze landed on the small display shelf where I kept my treasures—the few precious items that meant something to me. Among them stood my mother's crystal teacup, delicate and luminous, catching the afternoon light. She'd given it to me on my twenty-fifth birthday, telling me it had belonged to my grandmother.

"Fine," I whispered, reaching for the teacup. If I was being forced out, I wouldn't leave this behind.

As my fingers closed around its delicate handle, Victoria appeared in the hallway.

"Everything okay?" she asked, her concern as artificial as her smile.

I ignored her, cradling the teacup close to my chest.

"Is that Limoges?" Victoria stepped closer, eyeing the teacup. "It's lovely."

"It was my mother's," I said flatly, moving to step around her.

Her hand shot out, gripping my wrist. "May I see it?"

Before I could answer, she plucked the teacup from my grasp. I watched in horror as she pretended to examine it, turning it this way and that with exaggerated care.

"Oops." The word fell from her lips a split second before she let the teacup slip from her fingers.

It shattered against the hardwood floor, fragments scattering like stars.

"No!" I dropped to my knees, desperately trying to gather the pieces.

Victoria's gasp pulled my attention upward. She stood clutching her hand, blood welling between her fingers where she'd deliberately sliced her palm on a shard.

"Ethan!" she screamed, her voice piercing. "She attacked me!"

Ethan rushed from the kitchen, his eyes widening at the sight of Victoria's blood.

"What happened?" he demanded, rushing to her side.

"I just wanted to look at her cup," Victoria sobbed, leaning into him. "She got angry and pushed me. When I fell, the cup broke, and she...she pushed my hand onto the broken pieces."

Ethan's gaze hardened as he turned to me, still kneeling among the shards of my mother's last gift.

"Is this true?" he asked, but his tone made it clear he'd already decided.

I stared up at them both—Victoria nestled against him, her wounded hand displayed like a battle flag, and Ethan, the man I'd loved for seven years, looking at me like I was a stranger.

In that moment, kneeling amid the broken pieces of my mother's teacup, I realized I was looking at the broken pieces of my life. And for the first time, I wondered if some things were better left shattered than poorly mended.