Chapter 2
Hanging up the phone, I returned to the six-hundred-square-foot studio in Brooklyn.
Even though Xavier had long since grasped the reins of the Sterling Group, and even though he had just purchased a penthouse in Manhattan for Wendy to recover in, he insisted I stay here.
"This is where our dreams began," he would say, his voice dripping with practiced nostalgia. "We must never forget our roots."
Now, stripping away the romantic filter, I saw it for what it was: a cage for a compliant plan B.
I pushed open the door, and the smell of mildew hit me instantly.
Walking over to the yellowing sofa, I lifted one of the cushions. Underneath lay a dusty trophy—"New York's Emerging Designer Gold Award."
Six years ago, to escape the shadow of my family's terrifyingly immense legacy, I moved in here. It was on this very sofa that Xavier, fresh from securing his first round of angel investment, had held my hand. He had made the promise that convinced me to paint myself into this corner: "Estelle, investors get nervous about a CEO who looks distracted by romance. Let's keep us private for now, okay? Once I have a solid foothold, I promise I'll make us official. I'll make you Mrs. Sterling."
That "for now" lasted six years. I had traded the brilliance of the Verlin name for the identity of an invisible woman.
A sharp cramp in my stomach doubled me over. To fit into that wedding dress just yesterday, I hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours. I stumbled to the kitchenette and pulled open the fridge. It was a desolate landscape containing only two withered apples.
As I reached for one, my phone buzzed. Wendy had updated her Instagram Story.
The background was the sterile luxury of a VIP suite at Mount Sinai. In the foreground, a crystal platter featured apples meant for a child—peeled and carved into cute little bunnies.
The caption: [Xavier worried my blood sugar was dropping, so he insisted on feeding me himself. He says the nurses just don't care enough. ❤️]
My hand froze.
So that was it. In our "grounded" apartment, he let me starve. But in the concierge ward, he was hand-carving fruit for another woman. The rule about "no distractions during the growth phase" was evidently a gag order meant only for me.
I slammed the fridge door. The hunger remained, but the nausea was gone. In its place was a cold, crystalline clarity.
I grabbed a heavy-duty black trash bag from under the sink.
There was no sentimental ritual here. This was a purge.
That gaudy handbag covered in logos he gave me three Christmases ago? He called it "stealth wealth"; I knew the difference between Hermès and a Canal Street knock-off. Trash.
The fast-fashion wardrobe I bought to curate his "struggling entrepreneur's supportive girlfriend" aesthetic? Trash.
The heels that blistered my feet when I walked fifty blocks to deliver documents just to save him a courier fee? Trash.
The bag filled up fast.
I took one last look around. Once I stripped away my own layers of delusion, the apartment revealed its true nature—a damp, cramping rental that smelled of failure. It had never been a home. It was just a place where my dignity went to die.
I grabbed my sketchbook and my suitcase, walked out, and turned the lock. I was locking six years of stupidity behind that door forever.
The next morning, I walked straight into the atrium of the Sterling Group.
It was the morning rush. The massive LED ticker above the reception desk scrolled in bold red letters: STERLING CEO: A HEROIC VIGIL—SOCIALITE OUT OF DANGER.
On the screen, footage played of Xavier, unshaven and looking perfectly, photogenically exhausted, shielding Wendy from the paparazzi.
The receptionist looked up as I dragged my suitcase across the marble floor. She immediately leaned over to whisper to the security guard, not bothering to lower her voice.
"Check it out. Looks like the 'Secret Fiancée' gig is finally up. She's getting the boot."
Her tone was sharp, meant to humble me.
If this were yesterday, I—obsessed with Xavier's "low profile" mandate—would have ducked into the freight elevator. But today, I clicked my five-inch Jimmy Choos across the floor and headed straight for the executive lift.
"Estelle!" The receptionist stood up, feigning shock. "That's for senior management only…"
I stopped and turned. I didn't look at her with the doe eyes of the assistant she was used to. I looked at her with the icy detachment of a Verlin. The sheer weight of that stare made her stumble back a step.
I pressed the button. The doors slid shut, sealing out the murmurs of my "abandonment."
Instead of the top floor, I got off at Human Resources.
The door was ajar. Inside, Brad—Xavier's frat-brother-turned-executive—had his feet up on the desk, scrolling through his phone, chuckling at the gossip.
I didn't knock. I walked in and slapped the resignation letter onto the mahogany surface.
"I quit. Effective immediately."
Brad jumped, his feet hitting the floor. When he saw it was me, a sneer curled his lip. He picked up the paper between two fingers as if it were contaminated.
"Estelle, seriously? Are you throwing a tantrum because Xavier bailed on you last night? There's a limit to how much drama we tolerate." He didn't even read the text. "What is this? Using a resignation to beg for attention? Xavier was saving a life last night. Can you stop being so immature?"
"Sign it," I said. My voice was monotone.
Brad rolled his eyes and scanned to the bottom of the page. His gaze snagged on the signature.
"Estelle… Verlin?"
A second of silence, and then he let out a short, barking laugh. It was the sound of pure incredulity.
"Wow. Okay. You really are desperate." He flicked the paper with his fingernail. "Verlin? Honey, I'd like to be a Rockefeller or a Vanderbilt, but adults have to live in reality. Do you know how pathetic it looks to cosplay as old money? It's not just vain; it's cheap."
He tossed the letter back at me like it was a used napkin.
"Stop with the Cinderella delusions," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Go back to that dump in Brooklyn. Once Xavier cools off, maybe he'll let you come back and make copies."
That dump.
So even Xavier's bros knew. They all knew where I was kept.
"I don't need you to believe me," I said, picking up the letter. "My legal team will contact the legal department regarding the breach of contract. This was just a courtesy."
Before Brad could mock me again, the office door flew open.
Xavier stormed in. He smelled of hospital antiseptic and Wendy's cloying vanilla perfume. His tie was askew, his eyes manic from lack of sleep.
"Estelle!" He saw the suitcase, and the frantic worry on his face twisted into anger. "Wendy is still in critical condition, and you choose now to cause a scene? Can't you just be supportive for once? Go home and stay there."
"That isn't a home, Xavier," I said, looking at him. For the first time, I noticed how small he actually was. "It's a cage."
Xavier's expression darkened. He opened his mouth to shout, but then he noticed the HR staff peering over the cubicle walls outside.
The rage evaporated. In its place appeared a smile—tight, controlling, and terrifyingly benevolent.
"You're emotionally unstable right now," he said, loosening his tie and pitching his voice to sound perfectly reasonable—the weary hero dealing with a hysterical woman. "Go back and sleep. Calm down. I'll arrange a dinner tonight to make it up to you, and we can talk about reinstating your position then."
He stepped closer, pretending to adjust my collar, and leaned into my ear. His voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with menace.
"Stop making a scene, Estelle. Where can you possibly go? Once you leave Sterling Group, no one in this city will give you a second glance. Why push yourself into a dead end just for a little attention?"
I almost laughed.
I have somewhere to go, Xavier. But it's a destination you couldn't afford even if you sold your soul.
