Chapter 2

Marvin’s message kept looping in my mind as I stepped into the drizzle crawling over the city—Francis Sinclair has been waiting for this for two years. But I wasn’t ready to think about the future. Not when my present—four years of it—was still scattered across the rooms of Devin’s house and needed to be packed, trashed, or burned.

I took the slow drive up the winding hill to the villa, the rain tapping nervously against the windshield, as if the sky itself was unsure about my return. The tires crunched over wet gravel in a way I used to find comforting. Today, it sounded like someone else’s life.

The front door opened with its old, familiar click. I stepped inside, expecting the cool hush of black marble and steel, the echo of my own footsteps. Instead, I stopped dead.

The entryway was soaked in a warm, artificial orange glow. The walls—once a slick, impersonal gray—were now papered over with what looked like a child’s fever dream: plush bears, rabbits, kittens, hanging from ribbons and hooks, some with glossy new tags, others with heart-shaped noses and impossible smiles. The air smelled different, too—sweet, powdery, like a store that didn’t know what it wanted to sell.

I stood there, umbrella dripping onto the dark tile. Two years ago, I’d begged Devin to let me hang a single, palm-sized bear. One. I’d searched for it for a month, something quietly whimsical to soften the edge of the house. He’d barely looked at it before saying, “We’re not cluttering the entryway. It ruins the aesthetic.”

Now, the entire wall was plush. A carnival of softness.

I didn’t hear him come up behind me. Maybe I used to—maybe I’d spent so long attuned to his weight in a room that I tuned him out on purpose now.

“Melissa likes it this way,” Devin said. His voice was even, but there was a practiced patience underneath, like he was reciting a memo. “She came by yesterday. Saw your things and got upset.”

I didn’t turn. I just stared at a stuffed giraffe with a crooked smile, wondering what it had replaced. My own reflection in the glass behind the toys looked surprisingly blank.

He stepped around me, his shoes barely making a sound. “Come on. I’ll show you where your things are.”

I followed him down the hallway that had once felt like a runway—long, cold, lined with abstract art I’d never liked. The new paint was brighter. Not better. Just bright in the way that makes your eyes ache if you look too long.

The storage room was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe it just felt that way, now that all of my life was crammed into a single, sad corner. Four years of birthdays, holidays, Tuesday nights, and whispered secrets—reduced to two battered boxes and a plastic garment bag. My books, a mug with a lipstick stain, a pair of slippers with the heel worn through. My perfume bottle had leaked, its scent sharp and cloying on the cardboard.

But the worst was the pile on the floor. The things that didn’t fit in boxes, or maybe didn’t matter enough to someone else. The diamond necklace Devin gave me the night I turned twenty-six, bent out of shape, clasp snapped. The pair of mugs we painted together on a rainy Sunday—one was reduced to a handful of porcelain chunks, the other was missing. On top, a glass jar. The lid was shattered, and inside, a sea of tiny, colored paper stars spilled over the tile, scattering like a secret exposed to harsh light.

I’d folded those stars at nineteen. Folded them while waiting for him after meetings, on the subway, at lunch breaks I pretended were longer than they were. 1001 of them, each with a wish I never spoke aloud. He walked past that jar every morning for three years and never once asked what it was.

Devin stepped over a stray star, pausing to look at the mess. His brow creased, faintly annoyed. “None of this is worth much anyway. Just throw it out. I’ll buy you new ones.”

My mouth tasted like metal. “You’re right, Mr. Woodford. Things that aren’t worth anything should be thrown away when they’re dirty or broken.”

He barely reacted, but I saw the flicker—just for a second—in the tightening of his jaw. He started to reach for the necklace, then seemed to think better of it.

I knelt, knees aching, and began sweeping the paper stars back into the ruined jar. The glass bit into my palm, sharp and cold, but I forced myself not to flinch. The mug shards went in next. The warped necklace. The perfume bottle, leaking its last, bitter drops. One by one, I gathered up every piece of the life I’d shared here—every piece that wasn’t worth much—and carried them into the hallway, dropping them, all at once, into the steel garbage can by the door. The sound was loud, final.

Devin’s frown deepened, but before he could speak, I straightened, wiped my hands on my coat, and pulled the resignation letter from my bag. The paper was crisp, uncreased, the ink bold. I offered it to him like a peace treaty or a challenge—I couldn’t tell which.

His phone rang. The sound sliced the space between us. He didn’t look at me as he answered. I recognized Melissa’s voice, syrupy and impatient, echoing through the speaker. “Dev, it’s raining. Come pick me up.”

Whatever emotion had flickered across his face vanished. He didn’t even glance at the letter. He took it, scrawled his name at the bottom—no hesitation, not a single question about what he was signing—and handed it back, eyes already somewhere else.

“Take a taxi home,” he said, his voice cool, mechanical, the way he addressed junior staff. Then he was gone, the front door closing behind him with a dull, expensive thud.

I stood there, the signed letter gripped tightly in my hand. That was the part I wanted to remember—he signed the resignation letter without reading it. Not Melissa’s voice, not the plush wall, not the way my stars had tumbled across the floor. The fact that he signed me away while answering her call about the rain.

I stepped outside. The rain had thickened, the sky pressing down as if it wanted to drown the hill itself. I opened my umbrella, started down the slick driveway, one hand clutching my bag, the other wrapped around the envelope, now my lifeline.

Halfway down, my heel caught on wet gravel. I slipped, hard—my knee scraping open on the rough edge of the curb, pain blooming sharp and hot down my shin. But I curled in on myself, shielding the letter, my bag, anything that mattered. I could taste iron, could feel water seeping into my coat, but I didn’t let go.

A car engine roared from up the drive—a familiar, low growl. Devin’s black Mercedes, speeding down the slope, the headlights harsh and white in the rain. The car hit a wide, muddy puddle. Water and dirt exploded up, drenching me in a cold, gritty wave.

The passenger window rolled down. Melissa’s face, perfect, painted, smiling, appeared. She was leaning across Devin, hand on his shoulder, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. Devin looked at her—a look I hadn’t seen in four years. Something soft. Something that stung worse than the rain and the dirt and the blood running down my leg.

The car disappeared down the curve, taillights smearing red through the storm.

I stood, wet and cold, the resignation letter pressed to my chest, and watched the rain swallow them whole.