Chapter 2 - The Glittering FacadeTwo years passed in a blur of morning sickness, architectural blueprints, and cold calculation.
While Ethan and Jessica played house in a luxury high-rise condo in downtown Seattle, living high on corporate credit and the illusion of freedom, I was busy building an empire. Harper Brooks Designs had just won the bid for the master architecture contract for the Seattle Skyline Gala—the most prestigious charity event of the year, sponsored by none other than Reynolds-Parker Enterprises, where Ethan was now Senior Vice President.
Jessica had climbed fast, riding Ethan's coattails right to the top of the corporate ladder. They were the golden couple of Seattle high society now—flaunting their romance at charity auctions, stepping out in designer gowns, and looking down on the world from their ivory tower.
They had no idea who was designing the stage they were about to walk onto.
On the night of the gala, the Pacific Northwest ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic was a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers, flashing camera bulbs, and black-tie elegance. I stood on the upper mezzanine, adjusting the collar of my midnight-blue velvet backless gown. My hair was swept up into a sleek chignon, framing diamond drop earrings that caught every flicker of light.
Beside me stood a tiny, perfectly styled figure in a custom silk-and-tulle ivory dress.
"Mommy," a sweet, melodic voice piped up. "Are there going to be cookies at this party?"
I smiled, kneeling down to brush a stray curl from my daughter’s forehead. Chloe was two and a half, with Ethan’s piercing hazel eyes and my stubborn, unyielding chin. She was a carbon copy of the man who had abandoned us, right down to the tiny freckle just below her left ear—the exact same mark Ethan carried.
"There will be anything you want, sweetheart," I murmured, kissing her cheek. "Are you ready to meet some people?"
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"I'm ready," Chloe declared, clutching her tiny crystal-encrusted handbag like a seasoned socialite.
My heart thrummed with a lethal, intoxicating thrill. The doors below opened. The flashbulbs popped as Seattle’s elite stepped inside. And right down there, posing for the cameras with his arm slung lazily around Jessica Reynolds’ waist, was my legally still-husband, Ethan Parker.
