Chapter 4

Over the next week, I started preparing to leave. The house belonged to the Reed family, and I didn't want it. The car was Stephen's, and I didn't need it.

We had a joint account, but I never touched his money. Not because he ever said no, but because I never intended to.

My salary wasn't much, but it was enough to support myself. After three years, I had managed to save up. Not a lot, not a little. Enough for a down payment on a small apartment.

All I needed to take with me were three boxes.

One box was packed with clothes. Every single piece was bought by me, in styles and colors I loved, not what he preferred. His taste was all minimalist. His closet was a sea of black, white, and gray.

Me? I loved warm colors. A mustard sweater, a brick red trench coat, and a navy blue dress. Those shades made my skin look brighter and my whole vibe more alive.

But he never once cared what I wore. To him, it didn't matter if I dressed up or down. I was background, invisible, as if I could fade away and he would not notice.

Another box held the books I had collected over the past three years. Each night as I waited for Stephen, I read them. Literature, philosophy, psychology, history, one after another. They were my refuge, my only companions in that empty house.

The last box held scattered keepsakes. My mother's hand-knit scarf, birthday gifts from friends, and a graduation photo.

These belonged to my life before the Reed family. They were proof that Emily Warren was real. After three years with them, I had almost lost myself. These things helped me find my way back.

I left the wedding photo hanging on the wall. I didn't want to take it with me. I didn't need it anymore. The woman in that picture had a soft, shy smile, but she wasn't me anymore. I would never smile like that again.

I took off my ring and set it on the nightstand. Stephen's grandfather gave it to me three years earlier. It wasn't a fancy designer piece, but he picked it out himself, so it meant a lot.

On his deathbed, he held my hand. Tears filled his cloudy eyes. He said, "Emily, Stephen has a cold temperament, but his heart is good. Please bear with him."

I promised I would. And I did. I bore with him for three years. That was more than enough.

I left a note. [I'm giving the ring back. I can't hold onto your grandfather's kindness anymore.]

The day I left was bright and sunny. September's golden sunlight flooded the street. The maples along the curb were just beginning to show hints of red. Their leaves rustled softly in the breeze.

I stood in the entryway with my suitcase. I lingered for a moment and took one last look at the home I had lived in for three years.

The living room was spotless. On the coffee table sat the daisies I had bought last week, not lilies. I never kept lilies in the house. Every time Claire sent them, I quietly tossed them out. It was not jealousy. I was genuinely allergic.

There was also a book I had not finished. The bookmark was tucked at page 157, where I had stopped reading the night before.

The kitchen stove gleamed. The fridge still held the groceries I had bought the night before, all his favorites. I did not know why I kept buying them. Maybe it was a habit so ingrained.

I closed the door, took the key off the ring, and slipped it into the crack. The clink of metal echoed in the empty hallway, then faded into silence.

Then I turned and walked away.

My phone buzzed in my bag. It was Stephen calling. I put it on silent and flipped it over, screen down.

I didn't want to answer or hear his voice. I didn't want anything to do with him ever again.

*****

When I got to my new place, I set my suitcase in the corner and stood in the middle of the room.

It was a small studio apartment on the other side of the city. About four hundred thirty square feet. The living room and bedroom were all one space, with an open kitchen and a bathroom so tiny I could barely turn around.

The walls were white. The floors were a pale wood. The morning sun streamed through the east-facing window.

Compared to the Reed family's mansion, this place was a shoebox. But it was my shoebox.

Here, I did not have to wait for anyone. I did not have to walk on eggshells around anyone. I did not have to lie awake at night listening for the sound of the door opening.

I sat on the edge of the bed and texted Alex: [I moved out.]

He replied: [Congrats. You've taken the first step.]

I stared at his message, and my eyes stung. It was not sadness. It was something I could not quite put into words.

It felt like I had been walking alone in a dark tunnel for ages, and finally, there was a faint light at the end. It was still distant. Barely visible. But it was there.

I turned off my phone and lay down. The mattress was a bit too firm, the pillow too high, the curtains didn't block out enough light, and my neighbor was playing music. Everything was unfamiliar.

But I closed my eyes and drifted off almost immediately. No dreams. I slept straight through until morning. It was the best sleep I'd gotten in three years.