Chapter 2 No.

The leather of the couch in Sarah Miller's office was cool against Evelyn's skin, a stark contrast to the burning sensation that still throbbed beneath the bandages on her neck. Sarah sat opposite her, her usually immaculate bob slightly mussed, her knuckles white as she gripped a pen.

"He left you," Sarah hissed, her voice trembling with a rage Evelyn was too exhausted to feel. "The apartment was on fire, Evelyn. On fire. And he was in L.A. playing knight in shining armor to that... that siren."

"He didn't know about the fire when the alarm first went off," Evelyn said, her voice flat. She wasn't defending him. She was just stating facts. Facts were all she had left.

"He knew when the news broke," Sarah countered, slamming the pen onto her glass desk. "He knew when the EMT left that voicemail. It's been twelve hours, Evelyn. Has he called? Has he even texted?"

Evelyn looked at her phone on the table. It was silent.

"Draft the papers, Sarah."

Sarah blinked, her anger pausing for a moment of stunned silence. "You mean it? Finally? You're actually going to do it?"

"I want a clean break," Evelyn said, leaning forward. The movement pulled at the burns on her leg, but she ignored it. "I don't want spousal support. I don't want the Hamptons house. I don't want a single cent of Vance money."

"Evelyn, you're entitled to-"

"I have money," Evelyn cut in. She unlocked her phone and slid it across the desk, showing her the Architect account balance.

Sarah looked at the screen, her eyes widening. She let out a low whistle. "Okay. So the 'poor, helpless trophy wife' act is officially over?"

"It was never an act for me, Sarah. It was a cage. And I'm done being the bird. Also... I need a doctor. A discreet one. I walked out of Sinai against advice."

Sarah nodded immediately, reaching for her landline. "I'll call Dr. Evans. He does concierge visits. He can meet you at the apartment or a hotel to check those burns properly."

Suddenly, the phone on the desk buzzed. A picture of Julian filled the cracked screen.

Sarah reached for it, her face twisting, but Evelyn held up a hand. "Put it on speaker."

Evelyn tapped the green icon.

"Evelyn?"

His voice was deep, familiar. It used to make her stomach flutter. Now, it just made her stomach churn. He sounded tired, irritated. Not worried.

"I'm here," Evelyn said.

"I saw the news," he said. "Harrison tells me the penthouse is a mess. Are you handling the insurance adjusters?"

Evelyn stared at the phone. Are you handling the insurance? Not Are you okay? Not Did you get burned?

"I'm not at the apartment, Julian."

"Well, go back. You need to oversee the cleanup. I can't deal with this right now. The press is swarming."

"Where are you?" Evelyn asked, though she suspected the answer.

"I just landed at Teterboro," he said, the lie slipping out smoothly. "I'm heading to the Pierre. I can't come home with the paparazzi following me, and I need to get Serena settled. She's shaken up."

Then, faintly, in the background, a voice Evelyn knew better than her own nightmares.

"Julian? Baby, this hotel water pressure is awful. Can you call the front desk?"

The air in Sarah's office seemed to vanish. Sarah looked like she was about to vomit. He wasn't just landing. He was already at the hotel with her.

Julian covered the receiver instantly. There was a muffled sound, a harsh whisper, and then he was back.

"I'm in a meeting," he lied. Smoothly. Effortlessly. "I'll be home tonight to check on the damage. Don't be dramatic about the fire, Evelyn. It was just a kitchen accident, right? Harrison said the structure is fine. You always were careless with the stove."

Evelyn felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. It was a terrifying feeling.

"Careless," Evelyn repeated. "Yes. I suppose I was careless to think you were working."

"Excuse me?" His tone dropped, turning icy. "Don't start with your jealousy. Serena had a panic attack. She needed a friend. I know that concept is foreign to you since you don't have any."

"Enjoy your meeting, Julian," Evelyn said. "And tell Serena to try the spa shower on the second floor."

She hung up.

Sarah was staring at Evelyn with her mouth open. "You... you just hung up on Julian Vance."

"I did."

"And he was... she was there? In New York?" Sarah stood up, pacing the room. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to find where he is and stab him with a stiletto."

"Sit down, Sarah," Evelyn said, standing up. She felt strangely light. The anchor that had been dragging her down for three years had just been cut. "We have work to do. I'm not just divorcing him. I'm taking back my name."

"You want to write again?"

"No," Evelyn said, walking to the window and looking out at the city that had chewed her up and spit her out. "I've been writing everyone else's stories for years. Hiding behind the name 'The Architect' because Julian thought screenwriting was 'common.' Now? I want to be seen."

She turned back to her. "I want to act, Sarah. Book me auditions. Under Evelyn Reed. No connections. No favors."

"But your face..." Sarah gestured vaguely to Evelyn's neck.

Evelyn touched the bandage. "It's a story. It's character. Cover it with makeup or let it show. I don't care. Just get me in the room."

Evelyn left the law firm an hour later with an appointment card for Dr. Evans and a plan codenamed 'Rebirth.'

She stopped at a pharmacy on the way back to the penthouse to pick up some painkillers Dr. Evans had called in. Above the counter, a TV was replaying the footage. Julian lifting Serena into the SUV. His hand on her waist. The intimacy of it was nauseating.

"He's so romantic," the cashier sighed, popping her gum. "Wish my boyfriend looked at me like that."

Evelyn adjusted her sunglasses. "Trust me," she muttered, "you don't."

She arrived at the Vance Tower. The smell of smoke still lingered in the lobby, faint but persistent. The elevator ride to the penthouse took forty seconds. She spent them breathing, steadying the tremors in her hands.

Evelyn walked into the foyer. The damage was mostly in the kitchen and the living room, where the walls were blackened. But the air was heavy with the scent of disaster.

She went straight to the master bedroom. She pulled her suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.

She didn't pack the gowns he bought her for galas. She didn't pack the jewelry he gave her as apologies for missed anniversaries. She packed her jeans. Her old sweaters. Her laptop. And the hard drive from the safe-the one containing the scripts for The Gilded Cage, Silent Echo, and Glass Walls.

Evelyn was zipping the bag shut when she heard the elevator ding.

Her spine stiffened.

Footsteps. Heavy, hurried.

Julian appeared in the doorway. He was still wearing the suit from the TV footage, but his tie was loosened, his hair slightly disheveled. He looked exhausted.

He stopped when he saw the suitcase. His brows knitted together, confusion marring his handsome features.

"Going somewhere?" he asked.

He walked into the room, bringing with him the scent of airplane air and... underneath it, distinct and sweet... gardenias. Serena's perfume. And beneath that, the clean, soapy scent of the Pierre Hotel's signature verbena body wash.

Evelyn's stomach rolled.

"Yes," she said.

He scoffed, kicking the suitcase lightly with the toe of his Italian leather shoe. "Put it away, Evelyn. You're overreacting. Harrison arranged for the cleaners. We'll stay at the Pierre until it's fixed."

He walked past her toward the bathroom, loosening his cufflinks. "God, I'm tired. Draw me a bath, would you?"

Evelyn stared at his back. The audacity was breathtaking.

"Draw it yourself," she said.