3

Evelyn The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet. For three years, this place had smelled like freshly ground espresso, expensive cedarwood, and the jasmine candles I liked to light in the evenings. Today, it smelled only of cold marble and sterile emptiness. The late-afternoon sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass, illuminating the plush velvet sofas, the custom artwork, and the framed photographs lining the hallway console. Photographs of us. Adrian laughing beneath an umbrella in Florence, his wet hair curling against his forehead. Adrian holding my hand at the botanical gardens, his gaze fixed on my face instead of the camera. “Did you ever love me?” “No.” The word echoed off the high ceilings, striking my chest with physical force. A dry, shuddering sob rattled in my throat, but I bit my lip until the taste of iron broke across my tongue. I wouldn't cry here. I wouldn't leave a single tear on his pristine floors. I hauled a battered canvas suitcase from the back of the walk-in closet—the same suitcase I had arrived with when we married. I bypassed the designer gowns Adrian had bought for galas, the custom jewelry boxes resting on the vanity, and the coats made of Italian cashmere. None of it belonged to me. It belonged to the facade he had built and just as easily torn down. I packed only my ordinary clothes: warm sweaters, denim, worn-in sneakers, and simple cotton tees. I unclipped three small photographs from my bedside vanity—snapshots of my father holding me as a little girl, and a faded portrait of my late mother. Lastly, my hand drifted into my coat pocket. My fingers curled around the tiny, cream-colored knitted booties. I pulled them out, staring down at the impossibly soft yarn. A bitter, burning lump lodged in my throat. Tucked inside the folds was the little gold-embossed card I had penned with so much hope only hours ago in the back of a yellow cab. You’re going to be a daddy. A harsh, breathless laugh tore from my chest. I ripped the card cleanly in two, then shredded it into ragged scraps before tossing them into the wastebasket beside the nightstand. The booties, however, I wrapped carefully in a soft woolen scarf and buried deep in the center of my suitcase, shielding them from view. The front door clicked open, followed by the frantic click of heels against hardwood. "Evie!" Maya burst into the foyer, her coat half-unbuttoned, her chest heaving as if she had sprinted up thirty flights of stairs. One look at the open suitcase on the bed, and her face crumpled. "Oh, God," Maya breathed, crossing the room in three strides and wrapping her arms around my shoulders. "He really did it? Clara texted me that something went down, but I didn't want to believe it. How could he? After everything?" I stood rigid in her embrace for a second before gently pulling away. If I let myself lean into her warmth, I knew I would collapse, and I couldn't afford to break. Not now. "It’s over, Maya," I said, my voice eerily calm, stripped of all color. "He made it very clear. There’s nothing left to discuss." Maya grabbed my wrists, her eyes searching mine with fierce desperation. "Evie, listen to me. Clara told me how pale you looked leaving the office. You went to the clinic this morning, didn't you? What did the doctor say? Are you—" "I’m pregnant," I said plainly. "Six weeks." Maya let out a choked gasp, a mixture of disbelief and joy immediately crashing into despair. "You have to tell him, Evie. Right now. Call him or march back up to that office. Adrian isn't a monster. Whatever corporate bullshit his mother is pulling, he won't walk away from his own child! He deserves to know!" "No," I cut in, my voice dropping so low it made Maya recoil slightly. "Evie, please—" "I asked him, Maya," I whispered, the numbness giving way to a raw, jagged edge of fury. "I stood two feet away from him, looked straight into his eyes, and asked if he had ever loved me. Even for a day." Maya’s breath hitched. "What did he say?" "He looked at me without blinking and said no." My hands gripped the edges of the suitcase so tightly my knuckles turned stark white. "A man who could look into my eyes and say that doesn't deserve to know. A man who throws away his wife like a bad quarterly report will never lay eyes on my baby. I won't let him treat our child like a Sinclair bargaining chip or an unwanted obligation. I won't let his mother poison this baby's soul the way she poisoned his." Maya stared at me, tears brimming in her eyes. For the first time since we met in college, she saw that arguing was useless. The soft, compliant girl who had tried so desperately to fit into high society was gone. "What are you going to do?" Maya asked quietly. "I called the court clerk's office on my way here," I said, zipping the suitcase shut with a sharp, decisive pull. "The expedited dissolution decree allows me to revert immediately. I’m not Evelyn Sinclair anymore. I never want to hear that name again. I’m Evelyn Vance." "Where will you go?" "Somewhere far enough that the Sinclair empire doesn't cast a shadow," I murmured. "Dad is already settling into the coastal clinic for his recovery. I’m taking the red-eye train out of the city tonight." Before Maya could object, my phone buzzed violently on the glass nightstand. The screen lit up with an incoming call: Adrian. We both stared at the vibrating device. It rang until it went to voicemail, then lit up again immediately. Adrian. Then a third time. I picked up the phone. For half a second, the phantom ache in my chest urged me to answer, to hear what excuse he could possibly invent after gutting me in broad daylight. But I knew better. Cruelty dressed up in late regrets was still cruelty. I swiped open the settings, walked through the prompts, and deactivated the cellular line. Then, popping open the small metal tray with a paperclip, I took out the SIM card, snapped the gold circuit board between my fingers, and tossed the pieces into the bin. The screen went permanently dark. "Let's go," I told Maya, picking up the handle of my bag. We left the building through the service exit to avoid the private security stationed in the lobby. Outside, the night was ink-black and freezing, a thick blanket of fog rolling off the river. I stayed at a small, unassuming motel near the terminal for a few quiet hours, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the world to turn. Before sunrise, while the city was still submerged in deep indigo shadows and the streetlights flickered against damp asphalt, I boarded the early train heading south toward the coast. The engine roared to life with a low, steady rumble, vibrations humming through the worn vinyl seat beneath me. Through the scratched glass window, the towering silver needle of the Sinclair Tower shrank against the gray dawn, fading into a distant, harmless silhouette. I reached down, slipping my palm beneath the hem of my sweater, pressing it flat against the subtle, hidden warmth of my lower abdomen. A quiet, unshakable peace settled over the wreckage of my heart. "From now on..." I whispered against the cold glass, "it's just you and me."