PROLOGUE
The house was cold.
It was a strange thing to think, given that it was the middle of a sweltering Auckland summer and the thermostat was set to a precise twenty-two degrees. But the chill had nothing to do with the temperature. It was in the bones of the place—in the stark white walls, the polished marble floors, and the minimalist furniture that looked like it belonged in a gallery, not a home. It was a house designed to be looked at, not lived in. Chloe’s masterpiece.
I was in my study, a room that was my only sanctuary, though even here her influence was in the single, brutally uncomfortable chair she’d picked out. I should have been finalising the quarterly reports for her father’s construction firm. It was the safe, sensible job I’d taken a decade ago, leaving my own ambitions behind.
But tonight, I was committing an act of rebellion.
Hidden beneath a stack of financial projections was a worn leather sketchbook, and on its open page was the ghost of the man I used to be. My pencil moved across the paper, the soft scrape of graphite the only sound in the silent house. A small home took shape under my fingers—not a monument of glass and steel, but a quiet structure of wood and stone, nestled into the side of a hill, overlooking a lake I’d only ever seen in my imagination. A house with a soul. For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of something real.
“What’s this, Ryan? Doodling again?”
Chloe’s voice cut through the quiet. I hadn’t heard her come in. She stood in the doorway, a vision in a silk robe, a glass of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc in her hand. She glided into the room, the scent of her expensive perfume invading my space.
“It’s just an idea,” I said, my voice flat.
She leaned over my shoulder to look, her expression one of mild, condescending amusement. “An idea for what? Another one of your fantasy cabins? It’s a sweet little hobby, I suppose.” She straightened up and took a delicate sip of her wine. “But you do remember the Henderson project reports are due for Dad on Monday, don’t you?”
Before I could answer, she placed her wine glass down on the desk. Directly on top of my sketch. A perfect, wet ring of condensation immediately began to bleed into the paper, warping the clean lines of the roof I had just drawn.
She didn’t even notice. She was already turning to leave. “Don’t be up too late. We have brunch with the Vanderbilts tomorrow.”
She walked out, leaving the glass on my drawing like a flag planted on conquered territory. I stared at the spreading wet mark, at the way it blurred the one clear, honest thing I had created. I didn’t feel anger anymore. That had been burned out of me years ago. All I felt was a profound, hollow ache.
I slowly closed the sketchbook, trapping the dream—and the watermark of her indifference—inside. I had made the safe choice, the responsible choice. I had chosen her. And piece by piece, year by year, I was paying the price.
