Chapter 1

Friday night in Manhattan’s SoHo district. The air was thick with expensive perfume and that restless energy unique to New York. To celebrate our six-month anniversary, Ethan and I had booked this Italian restaurant, Carbone, two weeks in advance.

The candlelight on the table flickered, reflecting in Ethan’s deep-set eyes. He was wearing that dark blue cashmere sweater I loved so much; the sleeves were rolled up, revealing the smooth lines of his forearms. He had just poured me a glass of Barolo, the wine clinging to the glass like liquid silk.

"Olivia," Ethan’s voice was low and gentle. His fingers lightly covered the back of my hand, the warmth of his touch grounding me. "These past six months have been the happiest days since I came to New York."

I was just about to respond when the jarring buzz of a phone severed the delicate membrane of intimacy.

Ethan glanced at the screen. His expression wasn't one of annoyance, but rather a conditioned reflex—a mix of helplessness and apology.

"What is it?" I asked, though my heart already harbored a premonition.

"It's Chloe." Ethan turned the screen toward me.

The text message was suffocatingly concise: "OMG! Location says we're on the same street! Just finished Pilates, literally fainting from hunger. Coming to find you guys!"

Before Ethan’s fingers could even touch the keyboard to type a refusal, a gust of aggressive fragrance swept over our table. It was Jo Malone’s Wild Bluebell, mixed with a faint scent of sweat—not unpleasant, but exuding a vibrant, feral kind of wildness.

"Surprise!"

Chloe was wearing tight yoga pants and a sports bra, with an oversized hoodie thrown carelessly over the top, revealing one smooth, rounded shoulder. She didn't even look at me. She pulled out the chair next to Ethan and sat down with a thud, her movements as natural as if this were her own dining table.

"I'm starving to death." She casually snatched up the fork Ethan had just set down—the fork Ethan had used. She skillfully twirled the spicy vodka rigatoni from the plate we were supposed to share, shoved it into her mouth, and even made a satisfied chewing sound.

My stomach lurched instantly. It wasn't just unsanitary; it was a naked declaration of territory.

Ethan’s body clearly stiffened. Subconsciously, he scooted his chair closer to mine, as if drawing a line in the sand. "Chloe, we're on a date. And that was my fork."

"I know," Chloe swallowed the food, a bit of sauce still staining the corner of her mouth. She finally turned to look at me, her eyes as clear and innocent as a deer's. "Olivia definitely doesn't mind, right? We're all so close, like family. Besides, I just wanted a couple of bites; I didn't want to go eat a salad all by myself."

She smiled so brilliantly, her eyes curving into crescents, as if to say: if you get angry, *you* are the unreasonable, petty, mood-killing bad woman.

My fingers gripping the wine glass turned slightly white, but I offered a smile. Emotional management was my forte.

"Of course I don't mind," I said softly, signaling for the waiter. "Could you please bring this lady a new set of cutlery? Also, could you replace this plate of rigatoni with a fresh one for us?"

Chloe’s smile froze for a split second, but she quickly recovered. "Oh my, Olivia, you're too particular. Ethan and I used to drink from the same Coke bottle and it was fine."

"That was before," Ethan’s voice grew a few degrees colder. Under the table, he gripped my hand tightly, his strength bordering on painful. "Now I have a girlfriend. Boundaries are important."

Chloe shrugged and looked out the window, muttering in a lonely tone that only a man wouldn't detect as performative: "Fine, fine. Got a wife, forgot the mother... oh no, forgot the bros."

That meal was stripped of all its original romance. Although Chloe didn't steal any more food, she spent the entire time chatting in a high-pitched voice about funny college stories—a past I had no part in.

"Remember that hangover sophomore year? You puked all night in the men's room; I was the one who dragged you out."

"Liam told that joke last time..."

I sat there like an outsider, quietly cutting my steak. But I saw it clearly: every time Ethan tried to steer the conversation toward me or ask about my work, Chloe would cleverly interrupt with an inside joke only their circle understood.

She wasn't there to eat. She was there to tell me, through this method: You only have his present, but I own his entire past.

However, this was just the beginning.

A week after that night, we "accidentally" ran into Chloe while walking in Central Park. She was walking a Golden Retriever and pounced on Ethan the moment she saw him—I mean the dog pounced, but Chloe leaned in dangerously close, too.

"Brooke missed you!" she laughed, letting the dog jump onto Ethan and lick his face.

Ethan was clearly a bit awkward, but he still patted the dog's head. "Aren't you allergic to dog hair?"

"For Brooke, I'd take any medicine," Chloe took the cue naturally, then turned to me. "Olivia, you won't mind, right? Ethan used to help me walk the dog every week. Brooke is closer to him than to me."

I watched her hand, painted with black nail polish, rest lightly on Ethan's arm—just for a brief second, but intimate enough.

"Of course I don't mind," I said. "But Ethan has to accompany me to the MoMA this weekend, so I'm afraid he won't have time to walk the dog."

Chloe’s smile stiffened, but she recovered quickly. "MoMA? Ethan, don't you hate those abstract paintings you can't understand? Last time we went to that exhibition, you said you'd rather watch two football games."

"People change," Ethan said calmly. "Besides, I like the feeling of Olivia explaining art to me."

In that instant, I saw a flash of gloom in Chloe’s eyes, though it vanished in a heartbeat.

Perhaps because she realized I hadn't reacted visibly, her actions in the days that followed became increasingly excessive.