THE CEO I BUILT DUMPED ME FOR MY SISTER, THEN HIS RIVAL PUT A RING ON ME

"Do you know who this company actually belongs to—" I started.

Then I stopped. I stared at Ethan. His jaw jutted forward, defensive and blind to his own arrogance. The truth burned the back of my throat, begging to be unleashed. I swallowed it down.

"Never mind," I said.

"Good," Ethan muttered. "Leave the penthouse keys on the counter. And your company badge."

"My badge?" I asked.

"You won't need it," he replied. "I'm buying out your shares. The paperwork for that is coming next week."

I pulled my key ring from my coat pocket, detached the gold penthouse key, and dropped it onto the marble. It clattered loudly. Next went the plastic ID badge.

"Enjoy the marble," I said.

"I built this life," Ethan called after me as I turned away. "Don't act like I'm stealing it from you! I earned every penny!"

I didn't answer. I walked down the hall. Sloane trailed right behind me, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood. I stepped into the bedroom and ignored the walk-in closet filled with designer luggage.

Instead, I dropped to my knees and reached under the bed. My fingers brushed the dust, finally catching the frayed canvas handle of my old navy suitcase.

I dragged it out. The zipper stuck halfway, just like it did six years ago when I lived in a studio apartment and ate ramen for dinner.

Sloane leaned against the doorframe. "Don't think about taking the jewelry."

"I'm taking my clothes," I told her, throwing open the canvas lid.

"Leave the red silk dress. I have a gala next month."

I grabbed a stack of plain sweaters and shoved them into the bag. "Take it. It never fit right anyway."

"And the diamond tennis bracelet," she added. "Ethan bought that with company funds. It belongs to Lockwood Enterprises."

I stood up and faced her. "Ethan bought that for my birthday."

"Company funds," she repeated. She crossed her arms over my champagne robe. "Everything you own belongs to him."

I unclasped the bracelet from my wrist and tossed it onto the mattress. It landed with a soft thud.

"Anything else?" I asked.

"The watch," Sloane demanded, pointing at my left wrist.

"My father gave me this watch before he died," I said flatly.

Sloane shrugged. "Fine. Keep the sentimental junk. Just make sure you're gone before the cleaning service gets here at ten. Ethan hates walking into a messy house."

"I wouldn't want to inconvenience the new lady of the house," I replied.

I forced the zipper shut, hoisted the bag off the floor, and walked past her without another word.

The private elevator hummed as it descended. The doors slid open to the underground parking garage. Concrete pillars and harsh fluorescent lights replaced the warm gold of the penthouse. The air felt heavy and freezing.

I walked toward my designated spot, my footsteps echoing against the walls.

I dropped the suitcase handle. It hit the pavement with a dull smack.

My hand slipped into my pocket. My fingers wrapped around the plastic wand I had hidden there since six o'clock this morning.

I pulled it out and stared at the tiny window.

Two pink lines. Six weeks.

My left hand drifted downward. It hovered over my lower abdomen, trembling slightly. For half a second, the world stopped spinning. My palm rested flat against the wool of my coat, right over the tiny, secret heartbeat growing inside me.

I glanced at my watch. 8:15 AM.

"Ninety seconds," I said to the empty garage.

The tears hit me like a physical blow. I leaned back against a cold concrete pillar and let them fall. My chest heaved. I sobbed for the five years I wasted. I cried for the husband who traded me for an assistant. I cried for the child who would never know a complete family.

I stared at the two pink lines again.

A dry, broken laugh burst from my throat. A laugh echoing in the silence where a scream belonged.

I watched the second hand sweep across the face of my watch.

Forty seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Five.

Time's up.

I shoved the test deep into my pocket. I swiped the back of my hand across my cheeks, smearing the wetness away. I straightened my spine and rolled my shoulders back. The weakness vanished, locked away in the concrete basement.

My phone vibrated in my purse. I pulled it out. Grace.

I cleared my throat. "Good morning, Grace."

"Vivian," my assistant said, her voice frantic. "Where are you? Are you coming to the office?"

"I'm running an errand," I said smoothly. "What's the panic?"

"Sloane just called the front desk. She demanded we clear the executive conference room for an all-staff meeting at noon."

I gripped the phone. "On whose authority?"

"She booked it under the title 'Incoming CEO's Wife'."

My fingernails dug into my palms. The sharp sting radiated up my arm.

"Did she really use those exact words?" I asked.

"She did," Grace confirmed. "She also requested catering. The expensive champagne from the reserve fridge. What do you want me to do? I can have security block her badge at the lobby."

I stretched my lips into a wide, perfectly steady smile. The muscles in my face felt stiff, but my voice came out colder than the concrete against my back.

"Let her in, Grace."

"Vivian, are you crazy? She's going to announce the divorce to the entire company."

"I know exactly what she's going to do."

"You want me to just let her humiliate you?"

"Order the champagne," I instructed. "Set up the room. Make sure the microphone works perfectly."

"I don't understand," Grace argued.

"I want everyone to hear every single word she says," I replied. "Record the meeting. Send me the file the minute she steps off the stage."

"Are you sure about this?" Grace asked, her tone shifting to worry.

"Positive. Cancel my afternoon appointments."

"Where will you be?"

"Busy," I said, and ended the call.

I grabbed the frayed handle of my suitcase. The wheels squeaked in protest as I dragged it toward the only car left in my section of the garage. My silver SUV.

But I couldn't reach the driver's side door.

A man stood in my way.

He leaned casually against the hood of a sleek, matte black sedan parked right next to my spot. He wore a dark tailored suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

He didn't look at my face. His dark eyes locked directly onto the scuffed edges of my old canvas bag.

I stopped five feet away. "You're blocking my car."

He didn't move. "Frayed edges. Broken zipper. Canvas."

"Excuse me?" I asked, tightening my grip on the handle.

"It's an interesting choice of luggage for a woman who just signed away fifty million dollars."

My blood ran cold. "Who are you?"

He finally tilted his head, bringing his gaze up to meet mine. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and entirely unbothered by my glare.

"You're not surprised at all," he said.