Betrayed, I Chose His Rival

Maya called at 7:42 the next morning.

"He's at the airport," she said. "Scarlett just posted a story from the VIP lounge. Champagne, croissants, and the caption says, *Big news coming.*"

I set down my coffee. "What big news?"

"I'm guessing the Series B. He's been telling people it closes this week."

"And the Northgate letter?"

"Went out at seven. Formal language. 'Northgate Holdings is pausing further progress on the proposed financing.' Nothing nasty. Nothing personal."

"Good."

"There's more." Her voice tilted, like she was trying not to enjoy it. "Harlow sent their non-renewal notice twenty minutes ago. Brightwell followed. Kessler wants to 'revisit the partnership next year.'"

I pulled my laptop closer. "I didn't call any of them."

"I know. That's the point. Nobody called them. Nobody talked them off the ledge."

I opened the shared folder. Three emails. Polite. Brief. Every one of them had a history I knew by heart.

Brightwell had wanted out in March. I'd taken a call at 1 a.m. and walked their COO through Lumen's roadmap until she agreed to give it one more quarter. Kessler had complained about the dashboard bugs for months. I'd flown to Chicago on a Sunday to calm them down.

Ethan had been asleep both times.

"Olivia?"

"I'm reading."

"Ledger Weekly canceled too," Maya said. "The editor emailed his PR team. She wants to 'reverify the growth figures before running the profile.'"

I laughed. One short, sharp sound.

"That's not funny," Maya said. Then, after a beat, "Okay, it's a little funny."

"He called himself a natural," I said. "Remember? On that podcast. 'Some people are just born knowing how to build.'"

"I remember. I threw a muffin at my screen."

I scrolled through the notices again. Every one was a door I'd held open. Every one had quietly swung shut.

---

By noon, Ethan had posted on LinkedIn.

*Lumen Analytics is operating normally. We remain focused on our mission and grateful for our partners. Exciting things ahead.*

Below it, a photo of him in the lounge. Scarlett's hand rested on his shoulder, her nails painted the same red as her bikini.

The first comments were sweet.

*Power couple!*

*Two rising stars. Love this for you both.*

Then they turned.

*Wait, why would a CEO post this out of nowhere? Did the round fall through?*

*Heard Northgate walked. Anyone confirm?*

*"Operating normally" is what people say right before they're not.*

I refreshed. A new one popped up from a woman named Camille Duarte, Scarlett's friend from the gala last spring.

*Funny how the timing works. Some men really know how to borrow a girl's name for good press.*

Scarlett had liked it.

Maya called again at two. "Their CFO just emailed the team. Priya Raman. Hiring is frozen for next month."

"All of it?"

"All of it. And the penthouse office renovation is on hold. The one he promised to show Scarlett when they got back."

I pictured him standing in an empty floor with exposed wires, telling her the marble was on backorder.

"Are you okay?" Maya asked.

"I'm working."

"That's not what I asked."

I hung up before she could ask again.

---

My father called at four.

I almost let it ring. Richard Bennett didn't call in the afternoon unless something was wrong, or unless he already knew.

"Dad."

"Maya didn't tell me," he said. "In case you're wondering. I read it on the internet like everyone else."

I closed my eyes. "I'm fine."

"I didn't ask."

Silence stretched between us. I waited for it. *I told you so. He was always using you. You should have listened.*

It didn't come.

"You can come home," he said. "Or you can stay in your own place. Either one is fine with me."

"Okay."

"But Olivia." His voice dropped, steady as a wall. "Don't keep paying for him just to prove you loved him."

My throat closed. I pressed my fist against my mouth until it passed.

"I won't," I said.

"Good. Dinner Sunday. Your mother's making that awful fish."

He hung up first. He always did.

---

The cake was still on the counter. I'd cut one slice last night, out of habit, and left it on a plate.

I picked up the plate and tipped the whole thing into the trash. The slice. The sunken half. The single burnt candle.

Then I called my landlord.

"Ms. Bennett," Mr. Okafor said. "Everything all right with the unit?"

"Everything's fine. I'd like to start the move-out process. Whatever the lease requires."

"Thirty days' notice. I'll send the forms. You need help with the walkthrough?"

"No," I said. "I'll handle it myself."

---

That evening, I fell into the worst habit of all. I searched Scarlett's name.

An old article came up. *Hayes Consulting Team Lands Major Project with Blackwood Group.* There was a photo of a conference room, and at the end of the table sat Nathan Blackwood, arms crossed, wearing the same cold face he'd worn since we were nine.

Nathan, who'd told me at my sixteenth birthday that my dress looked like a lampshade. Nathan, who never smiled at anyone.

He'd given Scarlett's team a major contract.

Oh.

*Oh.*

I opened our text thread. The last message was from eight months ago. *Your brother left his scarf here.*

I typed fast, before I could think.

**Me: Looks like we both got dumped. Want to grab a drink?**

His reply came in under a minute.

**Nathan: ?**

**Me: You don't have to pretend. I saw the Scarlett article. It's okay to be hurt.**

**Nathan: I'm not hurt.**

**Me: That's what hurt people say. Don't tough it out alone.**

Three dots. They vanished. They came back.

**Nathan: Your imagination should be used for writing investment reports.**

I slammed the phone face down on the table so hard my water glass jumped.

"Unbelievable," I told the empty kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, the doorman buzzed.

"Package for you, Ms. Bennett. Courier says it needs a signature."

It was flat and wrapped in brown paper. Inside sat a small painting, no bigger than a book. A lemon tree on a blue wall, the paint thick and bright.

I'd seen it at a gallery last month. I'd mentioned it once, in passing, at my brother's dinner party. Nathan had been at the other end of the table, scrolling his phone, not listening.

I'd thought he wasn't listening.

A card was tucked behind the frame. Black ink. Neat, sharp letters.

*A day late. Still counts.*

My birthday had been the day before Ethan's. Nobody else had remembered.

I sat down on the floor with the painting in my lap.

---

At nine, my godfather called.

"Livvy," Walter Harlow said, sounding tired. "Your young man has phoned me four times today."

"I'm sorry, Uncle Walt."

"Don't be. He's phoned everyone. Brightwell. Kessler. Your brother's friend at the bank." He sighed. "He kept asking what changed. Why nobody would vouch for him anymore."

My grip tightened on the phone. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth. Or close to it." A pause. "I said the person who's been fighting for his chances all along has stepped away."

"Did he ask who?"

"He did," Walter said. "I told him if he had to ask, he never deserved to know."

After we hung up, my phone buzzed once more.

An email from Nathan. No subject line. Just an electronic invitation.

*The Blackwood Foundation Annual Charity Gala. Friday, 8 p.m.*

Beneath it, one sentence.

*Wear what you like. Tonight, you don't have to bend for anyone.*

I read it three times.

Then I noticed the guest list attached below.

Ethan Cole was on it. So was Scarlett Hayes.