The One He Loved Was Never Me Chapter 03
Ethan didn’t come back to the bedroom until deep into the night.
I lay with my back to his pillow, eyes closed, feigning sleep.
He stopped in front of me, reached down, and flicked the tip of my nose. A soft sigh. “Little jealous thing. Why so stingy?”
Then he pulled me toward him, rolling me to face his chest, and closed his eyes in contentment—never seeing the tear that slipped silently from the corner of my eye.
The man beside me fell asleep quickly.
I lay with my eyes wide open, dry and burning, staring at the photo wall across the room.
Sixtyfour photos.
Fortyfour were of him and Megan together. Nineteen were solo shots he’d taken of her.
Only one was our wedding photo—tucked into the bottom corner.
My mother had moved it there the last time she visited.
She’d said: “The pretty photos should go in the center.”
Ethan hadn’t objected.
My mind churned. I didn’t manage to fall asleep until nearly dawn.
I hadn’t slept long before Ethan woke me.
“Emily, why aren’t you up making breakfast? Megan wanted eggs Benedict and there’s nothing ready!”
He stood by the bed, face dark, his tone laced with obvious displeasure.
I didn’t respond. I got myself ready at my own pace, and only then looked up at him.
“Am I her maid?”
He blinked, pressing his lips together.
My mother appeared from the living room, having caught my words. She scoffed. “Making breakfast is such a simple thing, and you’re complaining? Megan’s health is fragile—taking care of her is the least you can do!”
My father frowned as he stood from the sofa. “If we hadn’t flown out to check on Megan, we’d never have known you’ve been mistreating her like this!”
Megan sat meekly at the dining table, waving her hand. “I’m fine, really. After all, this is my sister’s home. Whatever she says goes.”
Ethan frowned, walked over, and guided her into the head of the table. “What do you mean her home? This is your home too.”
My mother echoed: “What’s your sister’s is yours!”
I looked at the table. Four place settings arranged neatly in a row.
Ethan’s. Megan’s. My father’s. My mother’s.
None for me.
I dug my nails into my palm and slowly nodded.
Yes. This was her home. And his. But not mine. Not anymore.
I turned on my heel, grabbed my bag, and walked out the door.
That morning, I went to the office and handed my resignation directly to HR.
I’d barely stepped out of HR’s office when Ethan walked into my workspace—with Megan in tow.
His tone was casual, brooking no argument: “Emily, Mom and Dad want me to set Megan up with a job. She’ll be my assistant for now. You can help out in admin for a while. And let her use your office.”
Before I could speak, my phone buzzed.
In the family group chat, my mother had sent three messages in rapid succession, tagging me in each:
[Megan’s health is fragile. From now on, just handle her work for her while you’re at it. Acknowledge receipt!]
I stared at my mother’s profile picture for a few seconds. It was a photo of her, my father, and Megan—all three in matching red sweaters, grinning, against the backdrop of the Aspen ski slopes last Christmas.
I wasn’t in it.
I smiled, tapped the screen, and muted the group chat.
Then I looked up at Megan, standing behind Ethan with her chin slightly raised, and nodded calmly.
“Okay.”
He seemed surprised by my compliance. He patted my shoulder and softened his voice. “Once Megan finds something she really likes, I’ll move you back to the director’s office.”
I stepped away from his hand without expression. Said nothing.
Years ago, I’d received an offer from a top boutique family law firm in New York. But I’d given it up for the marriage—followed him to Los Angeles, became his company’s operations manager and legal assistant.
He’d kept me by his side with a single line: “We need to build this together.”
Now Megan wanted it? Fine. Let her have it.
I was leaving anyway.
Ethan gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then directed his staff to move my things, clearing the office across from his for Megan.
He went over himself—arranging her bookshelf, adjusting her chair.
Megan blushed and stepped forward to help. “I’m so useless. I hate that you have to take care of me like this.”
Ethan shot me a warning glance, then smiled warmly at her. “You just relax. I’ve got you.”
The next second, Megan took a step toward the desk and caught her foot on the edge of the carpet. She pitched forward, colliding with the flowerpot on my desk.
The ceramic pot slid off the surface and hit the floor with a dull crack.
Soil mixed with shards of porcelain and broken stems scattered in every direction.
She screamed.
My breath stopped for half a second.
That plant—Ethan had driven six hours from San Francisco to bring it back from a private botanical garden on our wedding day.
The pot was engraved with our wedding date: 08.01.2021.
He’d said: “Loving someone is like tending a flower. With this flower as my witness, I’ll take the very best care of you.”
I’d kept it alive for five years.
Two days ago, it had just bloomed its fifth flower.
Now it lay in pieces.
My eyes stung. My voice came out hoarse. “Ethan…”
He didn’t even look at the debris on the floor.
He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around the panicked Megan, checking her hands, his brow furrowed—his voice nearly a shout: “She cut her hand! Emily, I’m taking her to the hospital!”
He scooped Megan up and carried her out of the office without a backward glance.
I stood motionless, staring at the scattered soil and broken leaves on the floor.
A junior colleague—Xiao Li—gasped. “Emily! Your leg is cut too! Should I take you to the ER?”
I looked down. A fourinch gash ran down my shin, blood trickling steadily.
“No need,” I said, my voice rough.
The pain in my chest hurt far more than the bleeding wound on my leg.
I crouched down and, limping, cleaned everything up.
I left no trace.
Except on the floor beside my foot—a single drop of dark red blood.
I checked my watch, expressionless, and called an Uber. Went straight to the clinic.
I was signing the termination consent form when Ethan’s call came through.
“Emily, are you okay? I didn’t get a chance to ask earlier.”
I gripped the pen. In that frigid consultation room, this tiny scrap of belated warmth nearly broke me.
I was about to speak when I heard him say:
“If nothing’s wrong, make sure you clean up those broken pieces. We can’t have Megan getting cut again. Her heart can’t take the shock.”