Chapter 2: The Truth Behind His Memory

The rain was coming down in sheets as my Uber sped toward the Chelsea precinct. The driver, a talkative guy with a heavy Brooklyn accent, glanced at me through the rearview mirror.

"Rough night, huh, miss? Heading to the precinct at this hour... family trouble?"

I leaned my head against the cold, damp window glass, my eyes hollow. "Something like that."

The driver chuckled awkwardly, trying to fill the heavy silence. "Man, the cops are busy tonight. Did you see the news? Down at the Viper Room, that ultra-exclusive club in SoHo, some crazy tech billionaire nearly beat a guy to death. Apparently, some drunk Wall Street bros cornered a newly returned Stanford PhD girl in the VIP bathrooms. They wanted her to 'entertain' them for the night."

The driver shook his head in disbelief. "The girl's guy caught wind of it, rushed in, and completely lost it. Snapped one guy's arm like a twig and shattered another guy's ribs. They say he was fighting like a demon straight out of hell to protect her."

Returned from abroad. Stanford PhD.

I sat up straight, the blood draining from my face. My heart pounded a dull, hollow rhythm against my ribs as a specific name echoed in my mind.

Liana. The poor orphan Sterling had plucked from obscurity. His supposed "charity case." His absolute... obsession.

Two days ago, my laptop’s motherboard had fried while I was finalizing a heavy dataset for Dr. Alden. Desperate to meet my deadline, I texted Sterling, asking if I could use his custom-built desktop in the study.

He replied with a single period. "." It was his shorthand for yes.

But when I entered the massive, oak-paneled study, I hesitated. There were two computers on his mahogany desk. Unsure of which one was for personal use, I texted him again.

Ten excruciating minutes passed before my phone buzzed. [Maeve, have you entirely lost your basic cognitive ability to problem-solve?]

Swallowing the lump of humiliation in my throat, I opened the main laptop. Sterling never used passwords for me—not because he trusted me, but because he operated under a strict, draconian regime. His rule was absolute: Without my explicit verbal permission, you are not to enter my study, and you are absolutely forbidden from touching my belongings.

The moment the screen woke up, I saw it. The Liana - Devotion Protocol.

I remembered the promises he made to my parents. I remembered him swearing he would try to be better, to focus on my needs. With my heart hammering against my sternum, I had scrolled through the document.

And then my soul had turned to ash.

Six pages. Thousands of meticulously logged entries. All dedicated to Liana. Liana’s name was practically etched into his digital consciousness, a stark contrast to how his mother, Eleanor, spoke of her.

"Liana is such a bright girl," Eleanor had boasted just last week at a gala. "Full scholarship to Stanford! Sterling has such an incredible eye for potential. Sponsoring her was the best investment he ever made." Or: "Liana bought me a silk scarf from Milan with her first internship paycheck. Such a sweet, filial girl. I wish she were my own daughter." Or: "I spoke to Liana for three hours on FaceTime yesterday. That silly girl can't go three sentences without mentioning her 'Sterling.' She's just as clingy as she was when she was a teenager."

The list on the screen spared no detail. Liana despises the texture of cilantro. Liana’s menstrual cycle begins on the 14th; ensure the chef prepares ginger tea. Liana is terrified of the sound of thunder; always call her during a storm. Liana hums off-key when she eats a dessert she truly enjoys. Liana prefers her acrylic nails filed in a soft almond shape, exactly a quarter-inch past the fingertip.

I read every single line. With every word, it felt like a serrated knife was dragging across my chest.

It was a cruel, sickening joke. I had been with Sterling Vance for six years, and the man didn't even know my birthday. He couldn't recall my coffee order to save his life.

More importantly, I was severely, deathly allergic to almonds. I had told him this countless times. I had shown him my EpiPen. Yet, every single week, the penthouse pantry was fully stocked with roasted almonds, almond butter, and almond milk.

I had screamed at him about it once, terrified of going into anaphylactic shock in my own home. He had looked at me with bored disdain. "You are overreacting, Maeve. Just don't eat them. I am a man diagnosed with alexithymia; managing my own headspace is taxing enough. You cannot force me to micromanage your dietary restrictions."

Now, staring at the Uber window, the horrifying truth settled over me like a suffocating blanket. Sterling wasn't incapable of remembering details. Liana loved almonds. Sterling memorized every single microscopic preference she had, while completely disregarding my life-threatening allergy.

I had sat in front of that computer until the sun came up. I didn't shed a single tear. I didn't storm into his bedroom and scream at him.

Because I knew exactly what he would do. He would stare at me with those dead, chilling eyes, treating me like a hysterical, deranged woman, and he would say in his flat, condescending tone: "Maeve, what exactly are you throwing a tantrum over this time?"

But this time, there would be no tantrums. In exactly three days, my civilian identity would be permanently erased from the grid. I would become a ghost, vanishing from Sterling Vance’s world without a trace, without a sound.

There was no need for a dramatic breakup. There was no need for tearful goodbyes. Because Sterling Vance simply did not care.