Chapter 1
The chandeliers at the celebration party were blindingly bright.
I stood tucked away in the corner of the third row, holding a glass of wine.
Applause broke out from the main table.
Ewan Byrne, the chairman of the group, stood up, holding a woman's hand.
She was dressed in a burgundy gown, her makeup flawless. That was my ex-wife, who I hadn't seen in six years.
"Everyone," Ewan's voice boomed through the microphone, filling the entire party hall. "Let me introduce my daughter, Isabel Byrne."
My fingers froze mid-air, still clutching my glass.
"And she'll be your new boss going forward, the general manager of the Southern District," Ewan added.
The crowd erupted in an uproar.
The deputy director next to me whipped his head around, opened his mouth, but couldn't say a thing.
Isabel scanned the crowd, her eyes searching until they locked onto mine.
She gave me a smile.
That smile was all too familiar.
It was the same smile she gave me six years ago, when we sat across from each other, signing the divorce papers.
I set my glass down and took a step forward.
*****
Six years ago, the summer in Rivertown was stifling, like being trapped in a steam room.
My name was Scott Graham. I was thirty-one that year, working as an algorithm engineer at a mid-tier internet company.
My wife, Isabel, was two years younger than me, working as a marketing specialist at a subsidiary of the same group.
We'd been married for four years, no kids, living in a 730-square-foot two-bedroom apartment in the north of the city. I handled the mortgage myself.
One night, I got home from work at eleven, and she was sitting on the couch in the dark.
There were two untouched glasses of water on the coffee table.
"Scott," she said, her voice so soft it was like she was afraid to break something. "Can we talk?"
I set my laptop bag down and turned on the table lamp.
As the lamp flickered on, I finally got a good look at her face.
She'd clearly been crying. Her eyes were red, and her makeup was streaked with tears.
I asked quietly, "What's wrong, Isabel?"
She looked away and whispered, "I can't let him go."
After she said that, she lowered her head.
I didn't ask who "he" was.
I already knew.
It was her company's marketing director, thirty-five, recently divorced, an overseas returnee. He'd moved to Rivertown from Thayar just last year.
Over the past six months, the number of times she worked late had tripled.
I wasn't clueless. I just never confronted her about it.
"I'm sorry," Isabel said, looking up as tears fell from her eyes. "I tried, I really did. But every time I see him, I just..."
"Just what?" I asked.
"I just can't help myself," she whispered.
I sat down in the armchair across from her.
"You want a divorce?" I asked.
She bit her lip and nodded.
"Does he know?" I asked.
"He said that as long as I'm free, he'll marry me," she replied.
I stayed silent for a long time.
Outside, a car drove by, the headlights flashed through the gap in the curtains, lighting up her face for a second before fading away.
I said, "My parents paid the down payment for the house, but I've been covering the mortgage. The car's mine. You can have everything else."
She suddenly looked up, surprised. "You're not going to try and stop me?"
"Would it make any difference?" I replied.
She didn't say anything.
I got up and went out to the balcony for a smoke.
By the time the cigarette was two-thirds gone, I'd made up my mind.
No holding on, no chasing, no clinging.
I'd let her go.
There would be no strings attached.
But I wasn't about to lay all my cards on the table.