Chapter 3

Harper's POV

At one in the morning, cradling my injured right arm, I pushed open the iron gates of the mansion.

I had lived in this sprawling eight-thousand-square-foot estate for three whole years, yet the house was almost devoid of any personal touches.

Ethan was a clean freak. He forbade me from leaving any personal clutter in the living room, and he certainly never allowed a single photo of us on the walls. Yet in a hidden slot of his leather wallet, I had once seen an old photobooth picture with frayed edges—an eighteen-year-old Chloe smiling at the camera.

I walked straight to the utility room on the first floor and pulled out four heavy-duty black trash bags.

First, I went up to the second-floor guest room. This was where I had slept for three years.

The master bedroom was kept locked year-round. Only when Ethan was in a particularly good mood, or had drank too much and needed someone to tend to him, would he call me in for half the night.

I slid open the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Inside lay a neat row of trivial keepsakes.

A pair of silver-plated cufflinks Ethan had tossed to me on our first anniversary—a free gift with purchase from a luxury brand Chloe endorsed. When he handed them to me, he had merely said, "Keep them. Don't wear them out."

A stack of empty pill boxes from our second year, when I drank two entire bottles of vodka at a business dinner to close a deal for him. I had ended up in the hospital with acute gastric bleeding for three days. He never showed, only sending his assistant with two boxes of stomach medication; and dozens of sticky notes covered in his dietary preferences.

I used to treat this junk as proof that he cared, taking them out to dust them off now and then.

Now, expressionless, I shook open a black trash bag, pulled the drawer all the way out, and dumped it upside down.

The cheap cufflinks, empty pill boxes, and sticky notes fell into the darkness of the bag.

Next was the trunk in the corner of the walk-in closet. It was filled with old protective gear left over from every "accident" I had barely survived on set over the past three years: the lumbar guard cracked from my first harness snap, the bloodstained shoulder pad punctured by an unblunted prop dagger, the frayed knee pads ground down by the collapsing platform, along with a thick stack of hand-drawn action storyboards I had created for Ascendant Media.

Every single piece bore dark brown bloodstains that would never wash out, each matching a scar on my body.

Using my left hand, I grabbed them in fistfuls and shoved them into the second trash bag without a second glance.

Then I walked over to the living room display shelves. The matching mugs I had bought, the handmade protection charm, the half-knitted cashmere scarf left on the couch, and the solitary picture frame from my bedside—housing the only photo of us together, secretly snapped while he was asleep—all of it was swept into the bag.

The frame's glass chipped against the metal cufflinks, cracking right down the middle, splitting us in two.

I pulled the drawstrings tight, tied a double knot, and hauled the two heavy bags out the front door with one hand, tossing them straight into the outdoor garbage cans.

The heavy lid slammed shut with a dull thud.

Dusting off my hands, I turned and walked back inside. The strain of hauling heavy bags had pulled at my wound, and blood was already seeping through the stitches on my right forearm, staining the outer gauze a deep, blooming crimson.

Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I used my left hand to grab cotton swabs and fresh gauze, bending down to rewrap it.

Just then, a faint sound came from the foyer. Ethan pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Frowning slightly, he shrugged off his wool coat and draped it over an armchair. Loosening his tie, he walked over slowly, his voice cool and detached. "Still awake? Why did you clear out the living room?"

Without looking up, I used my teeth and left hand to tie off the fresh bandage. "Nothing. Just clearing out useless junk. It was taking up space."

"You hurt your arm that badly?" Ethan's voice dropped an octave. Stepping closer, he leaned down and reached out his right hand to inspect my wound. "Why didn't you go to the hospital? Let me see."

Just as his fingertips were about to brush my wrist, I pushed myself up quickly and sidestepped him with practiced ease.

Ethan's hand froze in mid-air, catching nothing but empty space.

The air in the living room instantly solidified.

Slowly retracting his hand, he straightened up, staring at me in disbelief. In three years, this was the first time I had ever dodged his touch.

A rare flicker of icy irritation crossed his brow.

He didn't step forward again. Pulling his gaze away, he said indifferently, "If it's not serious, get some rest early. The wrap party for this production phase is tomorrow night. The investors and leads will all be there. Put on something decent and come with me."

Packing the scissors back into the first-aid kit, I answered softly, "Okay."

Picking up the box, I turned and headed upstairs without looking back at him once.