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Antonia Bordeaux. The heiress everyone in London treats like royalty. The woman who’s been on magazine covers since she was sixteen, whose family could buy half of Europe if they wanted to.

My vision blurs as I scroll through the articles. Hurt twists painfully inside my chest, growing with each passing second. Humiliation. Anger. And a feeling I pretend isn’t there.

I press a hand to my mouth, trying to steady the burning in my throat, but it’s useless. This fucking news feels like it’s been branded into my mind.

When did he even have the time to announce he’s in a relationship? He was at my birthday party last night—my birthday—and then I went to his place afterward.

Maybe that’s why he left early. Maybe he wanted to get home, call his PR team, and plan the perfect timing for his grand announcement. Probably all happened between him leaving my party and me knocking on his door later that night.

The thought makes my stomach clench violently. Why did he even sleep with me then? Why? How could he do that?

It’s not just the hypocrisy that stings—it’s the fact that this is the first time he’s ever gone public about being in a relationship.

Ethan Hardy, the man who avoids commitment like the plague, finally decides to have a relationship.

When I thought he was with Irina and that he’d cheated on her with me, I felt awful. I hated it. I hated myself.

But now… now it’s worse. So much worse. Because I’m not sure which part hurts more—the feeling of being used and discarded the moment it was over, or realizing that he actually has someone and still chose to sleep with me. That I became part of something… tainted.

The idea settles in my chest like poison. I stare at the glowing phone screen, the headlines still open in front of me, and I don’t even know whether to keep reading or throw the damn thing across the room.

But really, what’s the point? I’ve seen enough. I know the truth now, and it’s everything I refused to believe before.

Ethan Hardy takes whatever he wants, from whoever he wants, and then leaves without looking back. That’s who he is. Always has been. There’s no woman worth the slightest effort, no one who can hold his attention long enough to matter.

Or at least, there wasn’t… until now, apparently. Because last night, while I was in his room, in his arms, he was already officially someone else’s man.

While he was inside me, the internet was lighting up with articles about him and Antonia Bordeaux.

The realization cuts through me like glass. I press a trembling hand against my lips, trying to slow my breathing, but my chest feels tight, my body caught between shame and anger all at once.

Everything about last night instantly feels like a lie—every kiss, every touch, every word.

I can’t let Ethan Hardy have any power over me from this moment on. This needs to be the last time his presence, his voice, his damn smirk means anything.

From now on, he’s nothing more than a name in my contacts list and a polite “hi” at social gatherings.

And if I ever forget that, if I ever feel the same pull again, I’ll remind myself of this morning—of the headlines, and of how it felt to read them.

With that thought firmly set in my mind, I throw the phone onto the pillows, not before closing every single tab and signing out of all the news apps that just dragged me back to reality. I can’t stand the sight of them anymore.

Then I head for the shower, determined to focus on anything else. Work. It, at least, is predictable.

Two hours later, I’m sitting at my desk, halfway through a budget calculation for one of the upcoming events, when Erika’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the office.

“Team, emergency meeting. Please drop what you’re doing and come to the conference room right away.”

I exhale through my nose, then save my progress, lock the tablet, and leave it neatly on my desk.

It’s not unusual for Erika to call impromptu meetings. Almost every time, it’s because some client decided they want an impossible event venue or a last-minute redecoration that defies physics.

I lean back in my chair for just a second, trying to stretch the tension out of my shoulders, but the moment I close my eyes, those headlines flash behind my eyelids again. His name. Her name.

No. Not now. Not again.

I push back the chair a little too abruptly and stand, the frustration simmering just beneath my skin, then make my way straight to the conference room.

My colleagues are already there when I walk in, even the interns. The air is filled with a faint scent of coffee and printer ink, and the low murmur of voices dies down as soon as Erika looks up.