Chapter 1

The resignation letter had taken me eleven minutes to write and four years to mean.

I set it on Sandra's desk in the HR office at 9:03 on a Monday morning. Sandra, Woodford Group's head of HR—a woman who had worked here longer than I had been alive and communicated primarily through the strategic removal of her reading glasses—picked it up, scanned it once, and set it back down.

"One week's notice." She folded her hands. "You understand that any departure within the standard notice window requires an executive countersignature."

"I wasn't aware of that policy."

"Page forty-seven of your employment contract." She said it the way people say *obviously*. "For director-level exits, the signature needs to come from the CEO's office."

I kept my face very still. "I see."

"Mr. Woodford is in the building today, if you'd like to—"

"I'll handle it. Thank you, Sandra."

I walked out with the letter tucked back under my arm and didn't let myself think about it until I reached the end of the hall, where a floor-to-ceiling window looked out over the city. Forty-one floors down, taxis moved like slow yellow beetles. The sky was the kind of flat, bright gray that didn't commit to anything.

I pulled out my phone.

The contact was listed under his first name only. *Devin*. Four years of that name saved in my phone, four years of learning how to say it two different ways—the careful, professional one I used in conference rooms, and the other one, the one that belonged to darker hours and unmade beds and a version of myself I had thought was safe because it was secret.

I pressed call.

It rang five times. Six. I was already composing the voicemail in my head—*Mr. Woodford, this is Jennifer Huckabee, I have a document that requires your signature*—when someone picked up.

The voice was not his.

It was a woman's voice. Unhurried. The kind of lazy that comes from being very comfortable in a space.

"Hello?"

I said nothing. One second. Two.

"Looking for Devin? He's in the shower right now, but I can—"

"No need." My voice came out clean. Almost pleasant. The same voice I used to confirm catering orders and reschedule board meetings. "Thank you."

I hung up.

The window was cold when I pressed my fingers against it. I hadn't realized I'd moved. Forty-one floors below, a taxi cut off a sedan, and the sedan didn't honk. I watched that for a moment. Somewhere behind me, a printer woke up and began feeding paper through its rollers with a sound like shallow breathing.

My phone buzzed in my hand. Two minutes, maybe less.

*Devin Woodford calling.*

I answered on the second ring.

"Jennifer." His voice was the same as it always was on work calls—clipped, efficient, carrying the mild impatience of someone who had three other things open on his screen. Not a trace of the voice from last Thursday night, when he had said my name like it was something he needed.

"I have a document that needs your signature before I can formally process my resignation," I said. "HR requires director-level exits to go through the CEO's office."

A beat of silence. "Right. Come by this afternoon, I'll have Patrice fit you in." Then, almost as an afterthought, the way you might mention traffic or a delayed lunch: "Oh—and stop by the apartment when you get a chance. Pack up whatever's left of your things. She's moving in."

The printer behind me kept feeding paper.

"I figured you'd need somewhere in the meantime," he continued. "The place in the western suburbs is empty. You could stay there while you sort out the transition. I promised Marvin I'd take care of you, so—"

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Woodford." I had not planned to say *Mr. Woodford*. It came out on its own, and I felt something sharpen in my chest when it did. "I'm an adult."

Another pause. Longer this time. "Okay."

"I'll come by for the signature this afternoon."

"Sure."

I ended the call and stood at the window for a long time.

*Four years ago he pulled me into his bed while drunk. Four years later he's offering me an empty apartment in the western suburbs.* I looked at my reflection in the glass—pale, composed, the kind of face that gave nothing away. *He thinks this is symmetry. He thinks this is kindness.*

My phone was still warm in my hand. I opened my messages and found Marvin's thread—my older brother, my only family left in this city, the man who had introduced me to Devin Woodford at a backyard barbecue nine years ago with the words *this idiot has been my best friend since second grade, don't hold it against him.* I had laughed. I remembered laughing.

I typed four words.

*Tell the Sinclairs I accept.*

I hit send before I could think about it. Then I put my phone in my bag and went back down the hall to collect the rest of my morning.

---

The hotel room cost more than I usually spent, and I didn't care. I ordered room service I barely touched, took a shower that lasted too long, and got into a bed that smelled like nothing—no particular person, no particular history. Just clean sheets and the hum of the city outside.

I had not cried on the phone. I wanted to hold onto that. I wanted to remember it clearly, for later, for the nights when I would be tempted—and I knew I would be tempted—to rewrite today into something more pathetic than it was. *I didn't cry on the phone.* I would keep that.

I slept.

When I woke, the room was full of pale early light pressing through the gap in the curtains, and for a moment I didn't know where I was. Then I did, and the not-knowing had been better, but only briefly. The clock read 6:47. I had slept the whole night. That was the first time in longer than I wanted to count that I'd done that without his weight on the other side of the mattress anchoring me down.

My phone had three notifications.

Two were from work. One was from Marvin.

I opened his.

*Francis Sinclair is pleased. He said he's been waiting for this for two years.*

I read it twice. Then I sat up and read it a third time.

*Two years.*

Two years ago I had been curled against Devin's side on a Sunday morning, my head on his chest, listening to him talk about a sailing trip he wanted to take. He'd said—I remembered this clearly, with the specific clarity of things you don't know yet that you'll need—*I'll never let you marry someone else. You know that, right?*

I had believed him.

I put the phone down on the duvet and looked at the light coming through the curtain gap. Outside, the city was already awake. Already moving. Already indifferent to everything that had ended yesterday and everything that, apparently, had been quietly beginning for the last two years without my knowledge.

I picked the phone back up.

Two years. Francis Sinclair had been waiting two years.