Chapter 3

I did not sleep after that.

Ethan came into the bedroom a few minutes later and found me sitting on the edge of the bed with the hot chocolate beside me. He looked at the cup, then at me, as if he was checking whether I had accepted his apology.

"You should get some rest," he said.

"I will."

He nodded and climbed into bed. Within minutes, his breathing slowed. I stayed still until I was sure he was asleep.

Then I got up. I walked back to the kitchen without turning on the lights. His coat was still hanging over the chair. I took the envelope from the inside pocket again, laid it flat on the counter, and photographed every page.

The complaint.

The inspection time.

The pictures of my studio.

The name at the bottom -- Ethan.

I sent the photos to myself, then saved them in the same folder as the screenshots from the community group. After that, I put the papers back exactly as I had found them.

He had planned the yard sale. He had planned Bella's lie. He had planned the message that made him look worried and made me look unstable.

And before any of it happened, he had already prepared the next move.

He wanted my studio gone.

For a few seconds, I stood there with both hands on the counter. The kitchen was dark. The refrigerator hummed behind me. Upstairs, my husband was sleeping like he had done nothing wrong.

I wanted to wake him up. I wanted to throw the papers onto the bed and ask him how long he had been trying to destroy me.

But I could already hear his answer.

He would look at me with that patient face, and I would become the problem again.

So I did not wake him. I went downstairs to my studio.

Every shelf suddenly looked different. Every bag of flour, every bottle of vanilla, every box of decorations felt like something he had already used against me. I checked the dates on every ingredient. I wiped down every counter. I washed the mixing bowls, even though they were already clean.

Then I cleaned the refrigerator.

I removed every container and checked every label. I threw away anything that was close to its date, even if it still looked fine. I lined everything up again, one shelf at a time.

At three in the morning, I found an old box of food coloring behind a stack of cake boards. It was unopened, but the date had passed.

I held it in my hand for a moment.

Ethan would have loved that.

One small thing he could point to. One small thing he could turn into a story.

I dropped it into the trash.

By four, my back hurt and my eyes burned. I took photos of the clean shelves, the labels, and the worktable. Then I wrote down the time.

Not because I thought pictures would save me.

Because I was done letting Ethan be the only person who kept a record.

Just before sunrise, I heard him moving upstairs.

I stood in the center of my studio and looked around one last time. Everything was clean. Everything was ready.

But I was not ready to face him.

So when he came downstairs and asked, "Have you been working all night?" I only nodded.

"You didn't have to do this alone," he said.

I looked at him.

"Yes," I said. "I did."

At eight o'clock, the doorbell rang.