I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, pieces of the past collided with the present, Ethan's silence, Adrian's confession, Camille's knowing smile. It felt like I had been walking through someone else's game board, convinced I was finally in control, only to realize I was still a piece being moved.
By morning, my chest ached from the weight of it.
I went to work anyway.
Routine had become my anchor. If I stopped moving, I was afraid I would finally break in a way I couldn't come back from. The elevator ride up felt longer than usual, every floor ticking past like a countdown to something inevitable. When I stepped into my office, the quiet almost hurt. The scandal had shifted everyone's behavior, whispers, careful glances, doors closing a little too quickly.
I dropped my bag on the chair and stared at the city through the glass wall. Five months ago, I had been rebuilding myself brick by brick, convinced I was finally learning how to stand alone. Now it felt like the ground beneath me had been hollow the entire time.
A soft knock interrupted my thoughts.
"Come in," I said, already knowing who it would be.
Adrian stepped inside, his expression guarded, the charm he usually wore so effortlessly stripped away. He looked tired. Older. Like a man who had finally run out of justifications.
"We need to talk," he said.
I folded my arms, bracing myself. "You already said enough last night."
"I didn't say everything," he replied quietly.
That made my stomach twist.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, as if choosing where to begin. "I owe you the full truth," he said. "Not the version that makes me look better. Not the one that asks for forgiveness before it deserves it."
I didn't invite him to sit. I didn't soften my posture. "Then say it."
He exhaled slowly. "Ethan Cole and I were business partners once."
The words landed with a strange dullness, like something clicking into place rather than shocking me. Still, my throat tightened. "Partners," I repeated.
"Yes," he said. "Years ago. Before you. Before the marriage contract. Before everything."
I turned away, needing space to breathe. "You said you competed. You never said you were close."
"We were," he admitted. "Too close, maybe. We built a company together from nothing. Shared contacts, ideas, risks. I trusted him."
I laughed under my breath, bitter and hollow. "That makes two of us."
Adrian flinched but continued. "When the opportunity came to scale, Ethan made a decision without me. He leveraged our joint assets, signed deals in his name alone, and when the fallout came… he walked away untouched."
I looked back at him sharply. "You're saying he betrayed you."
"Yes," he said. "And I lost everything. My reputation. My company. Years of work."
The room felt suddenly colder. I pressed my fingertips into the edge of the desk. "So you waited."
"I rebuilt," he corrected. "Quietly. Patiently."
"And when you met me?" I asked.
His eyes met mine, steady but heavy with regret. "At first… you were a way in."
The words sliced deeper than I expected.
"You were Ethan's weakness," he continued. "The one variable he never handled well. I thought if I stayed close to you, I could control the damage he'd done to me."
My chest tightened painfully. "So every conversation, every compliment, every moment you stood beside me-"
"Started with a lie," he finished. "Yes."
Silence swallowed the room.
I felt like I was standing in the ruins of something I hadn't even realized I was building. "And the feelings?" I asked quietly. "Were those part of the plan too?"
"No," he said immediately. "That's the part I didn't expect. I didn't expect you to be strong. Or kind. Or broken in ways that mirrored mine."
I shook my head, fighting the sting in my eyes. "That doesn't make it better."
"I know," he said. "But it makes it honest."
I turned away again, the city blurring as tears threatened to fall. "You don't understand what this does to me," I whispered. "I spent months convincing myself I wasn't naïve. That I wasn't the woman who believed love could grow in silence and secrets."
"I never wanted to replace Ethan," Adrian said softly. "I wanted to be different."
"And yet," I replied, my voice trembling, "you built everything between us on the same foundation, manipulation."
He stepped closer, stopping when I stiffened. "I fell in love with you, Liana. Not the idea of you. Not your connection to him. You."
I turned to face him, anger and heartbreak colliding in my chest. "Love doesn't start with deception," I said. "Love doesn't make someone feel used twice in the same lifetime."
He looked like he wanted to argue, to plead, but instead he nodded. "You're right."
The quiet stretched between us, heavy with all the things that couldn't be undone.
"I need you to understand something," I said after a moment. "Every time I thought I was choosing myself, someone else had already chosen for me. Ethan. Camille. And now you."
"I never meant to trap you," Adrian said.
"But you did," I replied. "Whether you meant to or not."
He lowered his gaze. "What do you want me to do?"
The question felt unfair. Like he was asking me to clean up a mess he had created. "I don't know," I said honestly. "Right now, I don't know if I can trust anything you say."
He nodded slowly. "Then I'll wait. Not as your protector. Not as your lover. Just… as someone who's willing to take responsibility."
I didn't answer.
He turned toward the door, hesitating with his hand on the handle. "For what it's worth," he said quietly, "Ethan doesn't own your past. And he doesn't get to decide your future."
The door closed behind him before I could respond.
I stood there for a long time, replaying every conversation I'd ever had with him, searching for moments that had been real. Some of them still felt genuine. That was the cruelest part.
I was reaching for my bag when I sensed it—something shifting in the air, like a presence I hadn't noticed before.
I turned.
Ethan Cole stood just outside my open office door.
My heart stopped.
He looked thinner. Paler. Like a man who had been living on regret instead of sleep. His suit hung loosely on his frame, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, we just stared at each other, the past rushing in so fast it stole my breath.
"How long have you been there?" I asked, my voice barely steady.
"Long enough," he said quietly.
My stomach dropped.
He stepped inside slowly, as if afraid I might vanish if he moved too quickly. "So it's true," he said. "You knew him because of me."
I crossed my arms, instinctively shielding myself. "You don't get to act surprised."
"I didn't know he'd use you," Ethan said, his voice tight.
The irony almost made me laugh. "That's rich."
He flinched. "I never planned to hurt you."
"You never planned not to," I shot back. "That was the problem."
Silence stretched between us again, thick with things we never said when it mattered.
"I heard him," Ethan said finally. "Everything."
Something in his voice made my chest ache despite myself. "Then you know why this ends here," I replied.
He took a step closer. "You think I don't see the pattern? Men circling you, pulling you into their wars?"
"Stop," I snapped. "You don't get to frame yourself as the lesser evil."
"I'm not," he said. "I'm saying you deserve better than all of us."
That stopped me.
I searched his face for manipulation, for guilt twisted into strategy. What I found instead was exhaustion. Real. Bone-deep.
"You don't get to decide what I deserve," I said softly.
"I know," he replied. "But I needed you to know… I never stopped loving you."
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
I turned away, my throat burning. "Love didn't stop you from destroying me."
"I know," he said again. "And I'll regret that for the rest of my life."
We stood there, two people shaped by the same damage, neither of us knowing how to step forward without reopening old wounds.
Outside, cameras flashed somewhere down the hall, a reminder that none of this existed in private anymore.
"This is where it ends," I said quietly, forcing strength into my voice. "For all of you."
Ethan didn't argue. He just looked at me like a man watching something precious slip beyond his reach.
As he turned to leave, I felt it, that familiar pull, the echo of something unfinished.
And I hated myself for feeling it at all.