Chapter 2 No.2

The leather of the couch in Sarah Miller's office was cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the burning sensation that still throbbed beneath the bandages on my neck. Sarah sat opposite me, 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 I 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," I said, my voice flat. I wasn't defending him. I was just stating facts. Facts were all I 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?"

I looked at my 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," I said, leaning forward. The movement pulled at the burns on my leg, but I 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," I cut in. I unlocked my 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 I held up a hand. "Put it on speaker."

I tapped the green icon.

"Evelyn?"

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

"I'm here," I said.

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

I 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?" I asked, though I 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 I knew better than my 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."

I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. It was a terrifying feeling.

"Careless," I 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," I said. "And tell Serena to try the spa shower on the second floor."

I hung up.

Sarah was staring at me 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," I said, standing up. I felt strangely light. The anchor that had been dragging me 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," I said, walking to the window and looking out at the city that had chewed me up and spit me 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."

I 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 my neck.

I 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."

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

I 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."

I adjusted my sunglasses. "Trust me," I muttered, "you don't."

I 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. I spent them breathing, steadying the tremors in my hands.

I 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.

I went straight to the master bedroom. I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.

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

I was zipping the bag shut when I heard the elevator ding.

My 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, confusing 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.

My stomach rolled.

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

I stared at his back. The audacity was breathtaking.

"Draw it yourself," I said.