Chapter 3
The elevator numbers ticked upward, each one feeling like a countdown.
My phone buzzed, and the screen lit up. A number I'd never saved but would know anywhere.
I picked up.
"David." My voice rang sharp in the enclosed space. "I'm in. I'll take the project."
A beat of silence.
"It's a steep price," he said, his voice quiet but steady. "You'll have to disappear—ten years, minimum. Cut ties with everyone. That includes your marriage."
My own pale face stared back at me in the elevator mirror.
"I know.
"Can you help fast-track the divorce?"
A longer pause this time.
"Yes," he said finally. "But Emily—make sure this is what you want. Once you go down this road, there's no coming back."
The elevator dinged.
The metal doors slid open, revealing the warm light beyond—the home I once thought would light up my whole life.
"I've thought it through."
I hung up and stepped into the light.
Andrew sat on the couch, absently holding a glass of water he hadn't touched.
He looked up at me, his eyes rimmed with red, exhaustion etched across his face.
"We need to talk," he said.
I peeled off my soaked coat and stepped barefoot onto the cold floor, the chill shooting straight up through me.
"About what?" I asked, my voice icy. "Which neighborhood is more discreet for your stray? Or how much I'm supposed to swallow before I've earned the right to call myself Mrs. Lawson?"
His face darkened. "Do you really have to be like this?"
"Then tell me what you want." I walked right up to him, meeting his gaze calmly. "Should I bow and thank you for keeping me around? Help you pick a move-in date for her?"
"Emily!" He shot to his feet, his voice rising. "I made a mistake—the kind every man makes at some point. I've already said sorry. What else do you want from me?"
The kind every man made.
What a line.
I looked at him, and suddenly, it all just felt absurd.
"Andrew," I said softly, "when you proposed, you knelt down and told me, 'Emily, I only want you for the rest of my life.'
"Now you tell me it's just the mistake every man makes.
"So I was just stupid for believing your empty promises, wasn't I?"
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
I turned and headed for the bedroom.
"Emily!" he called out behind me. "Where are you going?"
I paused at the doorway and turned back.
The lamplight fell softly around him, and he was still as handsome as ever—the Lawson golden boy, the man half the city's socialites would have given anything to be with.
But my heart was already dead.
It died the moment he lit that cigarette.
It died when he called her just a stray.
It died when I finally admitted that these seven years were nothing but a bittersweet story I told myself—just a self-deluding joke.
"Andrew," I said, "from now on, keep as many strays as you want.
"I don't care anymore.
"And..."
I pushed the door open, the last three words drifting away as the door swung shut.
"I just don't care anymore."
The lock clicked into place—a small, final sound, like a door closing on seven years.
As I slid down the door and sat on the floor, my phone screen lit up.
David's message: [The agreement is in motion. We'll wrap things up in ten days. Take care of yourself.]
I replied: [Okay.]
Outside, the rain was pouring down in sheets.
But I knew—the rain that had lasted seven years was finally ending.