# Chapter 2: Scratches On Wine Glasses Evelyn stood frozen in room 205, her eyes locked on the television screen. The image burned into her retinas—Julian's body moving with practiced rhythm, the stranger's legs wrapped around him, her nails leaving red trails across his back. The butterfly tattoo seemed to pulse on her wrist, wings spread in permanent flight. Evelyn's hand found the remote on the nightstand. She pressed the power button. The screen went black. She stood in the sudden silence, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her phone was already in her hand—she didn't remember pulling it from her pocket. She took a screenshot of the frozen image before the feed cut. Evidence. Proof. Something solid to hold onto when her world was dissolving into liquid terror. Then she ran. Her heels clicked against the hallway carpet, then the marble lobby, then the cold sidewalk. She didn't stop until she was inside a cab, the door slammed shut, the driver asking where to go. She gave him her home address. The cab pulled into traffic. Evelyn sat in the back seat, her hands trembling in her lap, her phone clutched so tight her knuckles went white. She stared at the screenshot. Julian's face, half-turned to the camera. The woman's wrist, the butterfly tattoo. *Focus,* she told herself. *You are Evelyn Cross. You handle crises. You solve problems.* She opened her contacts. Called Julian. He answered on the third ring. "Hey, babe." His voice was warm, familiar, the same voice that told her he loved her every morning. "What's up?" Evelyn's throat closed. She forced air through it. "Just checking in. You working late again?" "Yeah, stuck with the Harrison Tower partners. Dinner's gonna run long." A pause. "You sound tired. Everything okay?" *No,* she wanted to scream. *I just watched you fuck another woman in a hotel room.* "Fine," she said. "Just a long day. I'll see you when you get home." "Love you." The words hit her like a physical blow. "Love you too." She hung up. The cab dropped her at the apartment. She walked through the door, past the framed wedding photo on the console table—their smiles so bright, so certain—and into the bathroom. She turned on the shower. Cold water. She stepped under it fully clothed, the shock stealing her breath, and she stood there for an hour, shivering, her dress plastered to her skin, her mind replaying the image on a loop. --- Morning came whether she wanted it or not. Evelyn lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Julian had come home at midnight, smelling of expensive soap, and kissed her forehead. She had pretended to be asleep. He had climbed into bed beside her, and she had felt the warmth of his body like a betrayal. Now sunlight streamed through the curtains, and she needed to talk to someone. She called Rose Chen. "Girl," Rose answered on the first ring, her voice warm with concern. "You sound like shit. What happened?" "Can we meet? The Gilded Page, in an hour?" "Say no more. I'll have your usual latte ready." Evelyn dressed carefully. She chose a cream sweater and tailored trousers, applied her makeup with precision, pinned her auburn hair into its usual perfect bun. The woman in the mirror looked composed. Professional. Unbroken. She left the apartment before Julian woke up. --- The Gilded Page was a corner bookstore-café in Brooklyn, all exposed brick and mismatched armchairs and the smell of fresh coffee and old paper. Rose owned it, ran it, lived above it. It was Evelyn's sanctuary. Rose was behind the counter when Evelyn walked in, her dark curls escaping from a messy bun, her colorful glasses perched on her nose. She took one look at Evelyn and her smile faded. "Okay," Rose said, sliding a latte across the counter. "Spill." Evelyn took the cup. Her hands were still shaking. "I need to tell you something. But I need to wait for—" The bell above the door chimed. Evelyn turned. Mira Morgan walked in, her long black hair falling in waves over her shoulders, her olive skin glowing. She was wearing a sleeveless white blouse and wide-legged trousers, looking like she'd stepped out of a fashion editorial. She smiled when she saw Evelyn. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was murder." "Don't worry about it." Evelyn forced a smile. "I just—I needed to see you both. I have something I need to tell you." Mira slid into the chair across from Evelyn, crossing her legs. "You look terrible. Are you sick?" "I'm fine." Evelyn wrapped her hands around her latte, drawing warmth from the cup. "I just... something happened yesterday. Something I can't explain." Rose leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "We're listening." Evelyn took a breath. "I got an anonymous text. Telling me to go to a hotel. And when I got there—" She stopped. Mira's wrist was resting on the table. Her left wrist. And there, on her olive skin, was a small, intricate butterfly tattoo. The wings were spread. The ink was deep navy. Exactly like the one Evelyn had seen on the screen. "Evelyn?" Mira's brow furrowed. "What is it?" Evelyn stared at the tattoo. The world tilted. Her latte cup clattered against the saucer. "When did you get that?" she heard herself ask, her voice hollow. Mira looked down at her wrist, then back up at Evelyn. Her expression shifted—something flickering in her dark eyes that Evelyn couldn't read. "This?" Mira touched the butterfly with her fingertips. "I got it last week. On my trip to Bali." *Last week.* The same week Julian had started working late. The same week he had come home with his collar loosened and his eyes avoiding hers. Evelyn's heart stopped. Then shattered.