Chapter 1
"The divorce application has entered the final confirmation process. In seven days, if neither party withdraws it from the court, it will officially take effect," the lawyer said.
As he slid the papers toward me, Greyport was getting drenched by a downpour.
I stared at Adrian's signature at the bottom of the page for a really long time.
The letters were sharp and bold, just like the ones on the hotel acquisition contract.
He never asked why I wanted a divorce.
Two hours ago, I set the agreement on his desk. He'd just returned from Olivia Hart's gallery, and the shoulder of his suit still held the lingering scent of her favorite white iris perfume.
"Clara, what do you want now?" he asked, his brows furrowing the moment he saw the papers.
"Nothing," I said. "Just sign it."
He flipped straight to the last page, not glancing at the property terms.
"Are you done making a scene? Then come home. There's an anniversary dinner at the Vale Hotel next week. I don't want the media to notice you're not there," he said.
Then he signed it as quickly as he'd signed our marriage license five years ago.
The difference was, back then, I was so happy that I couldn't sleep all night. This time, I only felt empty inside.
After the lawyer left, I played the last voice message on my phone.
My father's weak voice came through the speaker. "Clara, don't keep waiting for someone who will always put you second."
That was the last complete sentence my father left to me.
Two weeks ago, he was rushed to the hospital after a sudden heart attack. I was out in the suburbs checking out a new site for the Vale Hotel when a heavy rainstorm blocked the roads, and my car broke down at the highway entrance.
I called Adrian twelve times.
On the thirteenth try, he finally answered.
"Adrian, my dad's in the ER. Can you come get me? I'm only forty minutes from the hospital," I said.
I could hear a piano playing on his end and Olivia's laughter in the background.
"Olivia's gallery is reopening today," he said, keeping his voice low. "All the drivers are out picking up board members. Just call a tow truck."
"A tow truck will take at least two hours. I'm begging you," I pleaded.
He went quiet for a couple of seconds.
Then he said, "Clara, don't cause trouble every time Olivia's around."
After that, he hung up.
I ran nearly two miles in the rain before I managed to flag down a truck.
By the time I burst into the hospital, my father's bed was already covered with a white sheet.
The nurse handed me his phone and told me he'd been waiting for me during the last ten minutes of his life.
That was when I finally understood. It was not that Adrian didn't love me.
He just believed I'd always be waiting for him.
I waited for Adrian for 12 years, from 13 to 31. That was enough.
I took off my wedding ring and tossed it into the trash can outside the lawyer's office.
My phone buzzed. A message popped up from Adrian. [Be home by eight. Olivia's coming for dinner. Don't be late.]
I looked at the message and couldn't help but laugh. Then I deleted it.
Seven days left until I was no longer Mrs. Vale.
*****
I didn't go home.
To be exact, the house in the Whitecliff District—the one with Adrian's name on the deed—stopped feeling like home to me from that day on.
I only took two suitcases.
I didn't take a single one of the dresses, jewelry, or limited-edition handbags he bought me.
During our five-year marriage, the things that were truly mine could barely fill a box.
There was my father's old drafting ruler, a leather case stuffed with architectural sketches, and the silver medal I got when I graduated from college.
At eleven that night, my friend, Mia Clark, showed up to pick me up.
She stared at my two suitcases for half a minute, not saying a word.
"That's all?" she finally asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
"You finally decided to walk away," she said.
I climbed into the passenger seat and realized I hadn't shed a single tear.
Mia didn't ask where I was going. She headed straight for the old town.
Bennett Architecture Studio was in a red brick building right by the river.
After my father passed away, Noah Reed, the senior partner, was temporarily in charge.
It was midnight, and the top floor was still lit up.
Noah was waiting for me at the door.
He was two years older than me. Back in college, we competed together for the International Young Architects Award.
After I married Adrian and left the studio, he stayed by my father's side for five years straight.
"Welcome back, Clara," he said.
There was no pity in his tone, nor did he ask any questions. He simply welcomed me.
My nose prickled suddenly.
My father's office remained the same. The project model he'd been working on was still sitting on his desk.
Noah handed me a folder.
"This is Mr. Martin Bennett's will. He left you 51% of the studio. And he wants you to resume your role as chief designer," Noah said.
I flipped to the last page and saw my father's familiar signature.
For five years, I thought I'd left architecture behind.
But I hadn't.
The three most successful projects at the Vale Hotel in the past four years—Bay Pavilion, Whitecliff Hotel, and Northshore Resort—were all based on my main designs.
But nobody knew it.
In our second year together, Adrian took over the Vale Group. It was his first time running a big project, but the board thought he was too young and shot down three drafts in a row.
That night, he got wasted and told me, "If this project fails again, they'll kick me out."
I stayed up for 11 nights straight, sketching out the fourth draft.
My father submitted it to the Vale Group under the name C.B, which represented me.
The board finally gave it the green light.
After that, I kept tweaking his plans but never let anyone know I was the one behind it.
It wasn't Adrian who asked me to keep it a secret.
I figured that, as a couple, it shouldn't matter who contributed more.
Turned out that was the stupidest thing I'd ever done.