Chapter 2
Emma didn't make it to the next morning.
At 3 AM, a sharp pain in her stomach jolted her awake. She curled into a ball, drenched in a cold sweat, biting down on her pillow to keep from making a sound.
The master bedroom was at the far end of the hallway. Andrew was fast asleep and wouldn't hear a thing.
She fumbled in the dark for two painkillers and leaned against the headboard, waiting for them to kick in. Outside, the city had fallen silent, the streetlights casting a dim, amber glow over the deserted streets.
She picked up her phone, opened her notes app, and started making a list.
First, schedule chemotherapy. Though the doctor said it was a long shot, she wanted to try anyway. It wasn't about clinging to life. She just wanted something to do so she wouldn't spend her final days waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Second, visit her parents back home. In her five years in Capital City, she'd only gone back three times. Every time, she'd said she was too busy and promised to visit "once things settled down." She wasn't waiting anymore.
Third, wrap up her affairs in the city. She had rented a small apartment last month. It wasn't because she planned to move out from Andrew's house. She just wanted a place to breathe on the weekends. Now, it seemed that the apartment had come in handy.
Fourth, write a will.
Her thumb hovered over the screen. She was only 28 and already writing a will.
She gave a bitter laugh and kept typing. When she finished, she checked the time; it was 4:30 AM. The pain had subsided, but she knew it was only a temporary reprieve.
She got up, washed her face, changed into fresh clothes, and headed to the kitchen.
She seared the steaks, peeled the potatoes, and tossed the rosemary into the pan with a knob of butter. Everything went into the oven to slow-roast.
Standing by the oven, she suddenly remembered the first time Andrew had ever eaten her cooking.
It was three years ago, shortly after they'd married. She had spent four hours preparing a perfect roast dinner. Andrew had come home late from the office, and she'd served him a plate with bated breath.
He'd taken one bite and said, "It's fine."
Just two words, but back then, Emma had been walking on air all night. Looking back, she realized her happiness had been embarrassingly cheap.
By 7:00 AM, the food was ready. She set the roast on the dining table, placing a clean plate and silverware beside it.
Then she went upstairs and dragged out the suitcase she had packed earlier.
There wasn't much in it. A few changes of clothes, some skincare products, and an old notebook, a diary she'd started when she first moved to the city. The entries were sporadic; she'd eventually stopped writing when life got in the way.
She tucked her marriage license and ID into her handbag and took one last look at the bedroom.
She had chosen the sheets, light gray cotton, while Andrew had simply said, "Whatever."
She had picked out the curtains, specifically selecting a ninety-percent blackout fabric because Andrew was a light sleeper.
She even bought the lamp on the nightstand. It was one with a warm, soft glow that wouldn't strain his eyes when he went over documents in bed.
Every item in the room was chosen by her, and every piece bore her mark. But Andrew would likely never notice those marks were gone.
She dragged her suitcase downstairs and glanced toward the dining room as she passed. Andrew wasn't up yet. The food on the table was no longer steaming.
Emma stood at the doorway for a few seconds, then turned, opened it, and pulled her suitcase behind her as she left. The door closed with a soft click.
Andrew woke up at nine in the morning. It was a rare weekend where he wasn't working overtime, so he had slept in. Out of habit, he called out, "Emma."
There was no answer.
He assumed she'd gone out for groceries and didn't give it a second thought as he headed into the shower. After he finished and walked through the dressing room, he noticed something felt off.
He stopped and took a closer look. Emma's side of the closet was half-empty; only a few coats and dresses she rarely wore were still hanging there. But her everyday essentials and that old suitcase were gone.
Andrew stood in the doorway of the closet, his hand pausing as he dried his hair. Then he remembered the divorce papers from last night.
He went downstairs to the dining room and saw the meal she'd left. The roast beef and potatoes were still lukewarm.
Beside the plate was a note in Emma's neat, elegant handwriting: [Heat the food before you eat. Sign the papers and leave them on the coffee table. I'll stop by next week to pick them up.]
Andrew stared at the note, frowning. He crumpled the paper into a ball, tossed it into the trash, and sat down at the table. He cut a piece of the meat.
It tasted the same as always, tender, perfectly seasoned, and cooked to a T.
He took a few bites but suddenly realized he'd lost his appetite. He put down his fork and pulled up Emma's WhatsApp. Their last exchange was from three days ago.
Emma typed: [Will you be home for dinner? I made that pan-seared salmon you like.]
Andrew replied: [I'm working late.]
Emma typed: [Okay, I'll leave some for you.]
He never replied to that "okay."
Andrew tossed his phone onto the table and leaned back into his chair, staring at the ceiling. He wasn't completely oblivious; he just figured Emma's little fit of pique wouldn't last more than three days.
She'd pulled this before. Last year, when she was running a fever of 103.1°F, she had called him. He told her he was stuck in a meeting and couldn't get away and told her to go to the hospital on her own.
After hanging up, he did spend three hours in that meeting, and by the time he got home, it was well past midnight.
Emma was curled up asleep on the sofa, a cooling patch on her forehead. On the coffee table sat some half-eaten pills and a glass of water.
He had carried her back to bed and tucked her in.
The next morning, Emma told him, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have disturbed you yesterday."
He'd just given her a grunt of acknowledgment and said, "It's fine."
The whole incident had just blown over. So, he assumed this time would be water under the bridge, too.
With that thought, Andrew finished the rest of his meal.