Chapter 5

Early on the seventh day, I went to the dance center to teach as usual.

When I opened the piano room door, the director was already inside waiting.

"Miss Harper, three parents called yesterday to complain, saying you work at nightclubs. This is a children's training center. The parents have concerns. Take some time off."

My fingers tightened on the edge of my lesson plan.

I nodded.

I pulled my teaching materials from under the piano bench and took out a box of candy the children had given me last week from the drawer.

Walking out of the piano room, a parent in the hallway who was dropping off their child pulled the child's hand and deliberately went around me.

I knew how the complaints came about.

But too many people had handed over knives. I couldn't tell who was who anymore, and I didn't want to.

My last financial pillar had collapsed.

I went to three places looking for work.

The supermarket cashier position wasn't hiring.

The restaurant kitchen had me try out that day. I washed dishes for five hours until my hands were so waterlogged you couldn't see the fingerprints.

The housekeeping company said I could train first, but I had to pay a three-hundred-dollar deposit.

My entire net worth: three hundred forty-seven dollars.

When I left the restaurant, it was raining.

I didn't have an umbrella, so I stood under an awning waiting.

A black sedan stopped by the roadside. The window lowered halfway.

Ethan looked at my swollen, pale hands and rain-dampened hair. His brow furrowed.

"Get in the car."

I didn't move.

He got out and held the umbrella over me.

"Melody Harper, why put yourself through this? Sign the papers, take the money, and move on. You don't have to suffer like this."

He didn't feel bad about me suffering. He just found my suffering an eyesore.

I walked out from under his umbrella into the rain.

"Ethan, you faked illness for three months and made me earn money for you."

"I sold all my heirlooms, and you gave them to another woman."

"And now you're telling me I don't have to suffer like this?"

Rain ran down my eyelashes. I couldn't tell if it was rain or something else.

But my voice made him take half a step back.

"You didn't choose the rules. But if you want to end this, fine. Except this time, I set the terms."

He reached out to pull me back.

I stepped aside to avoid him.

His hand froze in midair for two seconds, then slowly lowered.

That night, Professor Helen Wade called.

"Melody, check online right now. Someone posted a video of you singing at the nightclub."

I opened the link.

A secretly filmed video: Award-winning piano teacher reduced to nightclub singer—the truth behind the story is heartbreaking.

The comments section exploded.

Some cursed me for having no self-respect, some mocked the pianist turned hostess, some dug up my old award photos and put them side by side with current footage for comparison.

I read all the comments and turned off my phone.

My body was trembling, but my face showed no expression.

Fiona sent a message: "Melody, the video wasn't leaked by anyone from our club. I'm investigating. Don't come to work. Lay low for a while."

My last source of income was gone too.

Early the next morning, Luna sent me a message.

"Melody, those comments online are too harsh. I already had Ethan take care of it. Don't take it to heart. Do you want to come stay at the house? I prepared the guest room for you."

The house.

She was talking about what used to be my home.

Guest room.

I was being invited to stay in the guest room of my own house.

I put down my phone and walked into the bathroom to look at myself in the mirror.

I'd lost nearly twenty pounds. I barely recognized the person in the mirror.

Ethan called, his voice unusually urgent.

"I had the video deleted. Are you okay?"

"Ethan, did you have someone post it?"

Three seconds of silence on the other end.

I waited for those three seconds.

"Whether it was you or not, thank you for deleting it."

I hung up.

Those three seconds of silence were the answer.

He probably didn't post it, but he didn't stop it either.

That night I opened my phone's photo album and scrolled from the first picture to the last.

All photos related to Ethan.

Photos of us together, him secretly photographing me playing piano, me photographing him sleeping, selfies of us toasting at a small restaurant.

Over two hundred photos.

Select all. Delete.

The photos disappeared one by one.

After clearing my phone, the screen was so clean there wasn't a trace left.

I opened my messages and sent Ethan one final text.

"I agree to the divorce."

I also took out the silver ring from the drawer and left a note:

"Returning this to you!"