Chapter 3

By seven o’clock, the divorce agreement was waiting in my inbox.

Marcus had highlighted three places for my signature.

I read every page but signed nothing.

Some part of me still wanted to give Maxwell one last chance.

I changed into a simple black dress and walked toward the anniversary dinner.

The premier table overlooked the ocean. Candles flickered between crystal glasses, and a violinist played beside the terrace.

Maxwell sat with Arabella and Julian.

Arabella was wearing my emerald dress.

Nine days ago, Maxwell had watched me try it on.

“Do I still look beautiful?” I had asked, turning sideways to study my pregnant belly.

He had barely looked up from his phone.

“Buy it. You deserve something special for our anniversary.”

Now Arabella wore it while sitting in my place.

Around her neck rested my mother’s sapphire pendant.

The necklace had been locked inside our home safe. Only Maxwell and I knew the code.

Arabella touched it as I approached.

“Oh, Estelle. Maxwell said you wouldn’t mind. He told me you probably wouldn’t be wearing the dress tonight.”

Maxwell gestured toward the chair across from them, partially blocked by a stone pillar.

“Sit down. We ordered for you.”

“You opened my safe?”

His expression hardened. “Not this again.”

“You gave her my mother’s necklace.”

“It’s jewelry, Estelle. Your mother would have wanted someone to enjoy it.”

I took out my phone and began recording.

“You opened my safe and gave Arabella my mother’s necklace?”

Maxwell glanced at the screen.

“I lent a grieving widow something beautiful for one evening. If you need to record that, go ahead.”

Arabella’s eyes filled with tears.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come. Maxwell, please don’t fight with your wife because of me.”

He immediately covered her hand with his.

“You did nothing wrong.”

Then he looked at me.

“Arabella needs me tonight. You don’t.”

The unsigned divorce agreement was still waiting in my inbox in Room 104.

I had come to dinner because some foolish part of me wanted one final reason not to sign it.

Maxwell had just given me the opposite.

“You’re right,” I said.

His shoulders relaxed, as though he believed I had finally agreed to step aside.

“I don’t need you.”

I stopped the recording and slipped my phone into my bag.

My gaze passed over Arabella in my dress, my mother’s necklace resting against her throat, and Maxwell’s hand covering hers.

There was nothing left to ask and nothing left to save.

“Enjoy the anniversary dinner I paid for.”

Before either of them could answer, I turned and walked away.

The violinist continued playing as I crossed the candlelit terrace. Behind me, glasses clinked and waves broke against the cliffs, as though my marriage had not just ended in the middle of dinner.

I didn’t look back.

By the time I reached Room 104, my hands had stopped shaking.

I locked the door, opened my laptop, and pulled up Marcus’s email.

Then I signed the divorce agreement.

I took a small velvet envelope from the bottom of my suitcase.

Inside was the ultrasound photograph I had planned to give Maxwell at dinner.

He still didn’t know we were having a girl.

On the back, I had written:

It’s a girl.

I want to name her Amelia.

I can’t wait to see you hold our daughter.

Happy anniversary, Daddy.

I read the words twice.

I did not cross them out. They belonged to the woman I had been when I wrote them—a woman who still believed her husband wanted our family.

At the hotel’s business center, I printed the divorce agreement. I placed the ultrasound photograph on top of it and sealed them together inside a cream envelope.

The private butler arrived ten minutes later.

“Give this to Mr. Vance at exactly nine o’clock.”

“Shall I tell him who sent it?”

Through the window, I could see Arabella beside my husband, wearing my dress and my mother’s necklace.

“Tell him it’s the anniversary gift I promised him.”

I packed my suitcase and booked the earliest flight home.

There was one first-class seat left.

This time, I bought it for myself.

At eight fifty-five, I boarded the plane and settled beside the window.

My phone remained silent.

In five minutes, Maxwell would learn that he was having a daughter.

Then he would see my signature on the pages beneath her photograph.

The cabin doors closed.

A flight attendant stopped beside me.

“Mrs. Vance, please turn off your phone.”

The time changed to nine o’clock.

Somewhere on the island, the butler would be placing the envelope in Maxwell’s hands.

I rested one palm over our daughter.

“Goodbye, Maxwell,” I whispered.

Then I powered down the screen.