How long have you been with her?

Nora's POV

I froze in the hallway, my body refusing to process the scene unfolding before me. The woman's red dress seemed to bleed into my vision, her fingers tangled in Owen's hair, and Owen's hands—the same hands that had held mine across countless dinners—rested on her waist with a familiarity that spoke of long practice.

The sound of their kiss was soft, and somehow that tenderness made everything worse. This wasn't a drunken mistake or a moment of weakness. This was something that had been growing in the shadows while I drowned in my own disasters.

They pulled apart slowly, and Owen turned toward the elevator with an easy stride. Then his eyes met mine, and I watched the color drain from his face. The woman beside him noticed me, her expression shifting from satisfaction to awkward surprise, and I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my throat at the absurdity of it—that she should feel uncomfortable, as if she were the intruder in this moment.

"Nora." Owen's voice had lost the warmth from the restaurant. Now he just sounded tired, irritated, as if I were a problem he thought he'd already solved. "What are you doing here?"

"Shouldn't I be here?" My voice carried a strange calm, as if borrowed from someone else. "I'm your fiancée, and yet you're blaming me for interrupting you kissing another woman?"

Owen's jaw tightened, and I saw him decide to drop the pretense. "Nora, we ended months ago," he said flatly. "You just refused to see it."

The woman's hand slipped from his arm, drawing my attention, and I studied her carefully. She was younger than me—maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven—with the kind of effortless beauty that required no effort. Her makeup was flawless, her dress expensive, her body unOwened by any wounds. Far more appealing than my current disheveled state.

"How long?" I heard myself ask, though some part of my mind was screaming at me to stop, to turn around and leave with whatever dignity I had left. "How long have you been with her?"

Owen and the woman exchanged a glance, and she gave him a slight nod, as if granting permission to answer. The gesture turned my stomach—they had developed an intimate understanding that excluded me entirely.

"A month," Owen said, and the timeline hit me like ice water. A month ago, I'd been sitting in a hospital waiting room, waiting for news about my parents after the car accident.

A month ago, I'd been fielding calls from creditors while trying to figure out how to keep my company afloat for one more week. A month ago, Owen had kissed me goodbye before leaving for a business trip, told me he loved me, and promised we'd weather this storm together.

"A month," I repeated, and this time my voice cracked, the carefully maintained composure finally beginning to fracture. "You were already with her when my parents died. When I was trying to save my company. When I—" I stopped, unable to articulate the pain of betrayal slowly crystallizing in my chest.

"You pulled away first," Owen said, and now heat crept into his voice, a defensive anger that made him step forward, away from the woman in red. "Nora, even when you were physically beside me, your mind was somewhere else. You stopped talking to me, stopped aMercerg for my input, stopped treating me like a partner. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there while you shut me out?"

"I was trying to protect you," I said, and the words sounded pathetic even to my own ears. "I didn't want to burden you with—"

"Burden me with what? Your life?" Owen's laugh was harsh and bitter. "That's not how relationships work, Nora. You don't get to decide what I can handle. You don't get to shut me out and then act shocked when I find someone who actually wants to share her life with me."

The woman cleared her throat softly, and Owen's expression immediately softened when he looked at her. "Maybe I should go inside," she said quietly, her eyes flicking between us with obvious discomfort. "You two should talk."

"No need." Owen's hand caught hers, holding her in place with a possessiveness that made my chest ache. "Nora was just leaving. Weren't you, Nora?"

The casual dismissal, the complete abandonment, left me momentarily breathless. This was it, then. Three years of my life ending like this—not with the romantic proposal I'd imagined, not even with the painful but dignified conversation we'd had at the restaurant, but with me standing in a hallway watching Owen hold another woman's hand and tell me to leave.

"You're right," I said, my voice sounding distant, detached, as if coming from far away. "I should go."

I turned toward the elevator, my movements mechanical, and behind me I heard Owen exhale—a sound of relief that made clear how badly he wanted this confrontation to end. The elevator doors opened immediately—a small mercy in a night full of cruelties—and I stepped inside, my finger finding the lobby button with practiced ease.

As the doors began to close, I looked up one last time and saw them still standing there, Owen's arm now wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. They were both watching me, and in their identical expressions of pity and discomfort, I saw my own reflection: a woman who'd been cast aside.

The elevator descended, and I pressed my back against the cold metal wall, sliding down until I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest. The tears I'd been holding back finally came, silent and burning, streaming down my face and dripping onto my wrinkled blazer.

The elevator reached the lobby with a soft chime, and I forced myself to stand, to wipe my face with trembling hands, to walk past the night doorman with my head held high, though I could feel his concerned gaze following me out the door.

My company was bankrupt, my assets seized, my professional reputation destroyed. My ex-fiancé was upstairs with another woman, probably already in bed with her, probably relieved that I'd finally gotten the message and left them alone.

I pulled out my phone again, my finger hovering over Dani's contact information, but I couldn't bring myself to call her. What would I even say? Ask her to rescue me? Ask her to help me cancel the contract I'd signed myself?

I couldn't bring myself to confess this foolish decision to her.

A cold wind cut through the street, and I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I was, standing on this corner in my tattered business clothes with mascara probably streaking down my face. I needed to find shelter, needed to decide what to do next. But my body felt heavy, my mind foggy with exhaustion and shock, and all I could do was stand there, staring at the empty street and trying to remember what solid ground felt like beneath my feet.

A car pulled up to the curb, its headlights cutting through the darkness, and I looked up instinctively, half-expecting a taxi even though I hadn't called one. But the vehicle that stopped in front of me was a sleek black sedan, expensive and understated, with tinted windows that reflected my haggard appearance back at me.

The driver's side door opened, and Callum Mercer stepped out.