Chapter 2

Emilio didn't come home that night.

Of course he didn't.

He had a son to comfort, a mistress to appease, and a mess to clean up that mattered far more to him than the wife sitting alone in the dark.

I sat on the edge of the bed until sunrise, the silence of the house pressing against my eardrums like a physical weight.

By the time the gray light of dawn filtered through the curtains, the tears had finally stopped.

My eyes were dry, burning with the grit of sleeplessness.

Around ten o'clock, the front door chimed.

I didn't move.

It wasn't Emilio. It was his assistant, Marcus, looking pale and terrified, as if he were walking to a gallows rather than a front door.

He carried a massive bouquet of white lilies-my favorite-and a thick, cream-colored envelope.

"Mrs. Acosta," Marcus stammered, standing awkwardly in the foyer. "Mr. Acosta... he got tied up. He sent these. He said he's very sorry about the misunderstanding last night."

Misunderstanding.

I looked at the flowers. Lilies. The scent was cloying, suffocating. They looked less like an apology and more like a funeral arrangement.

"Throw them out," I said. My voice sounded like gravel grinding together.

"Ma'am?"

"The flowers. The letter. Throw them in the trash on your way out."

Marcus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "He... he really wants you to read the letter, Elana. He said he loves you."

I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. "If he loved me, Marcus, he would be here. Not you."

I turned my back on him and walked into the kitchen, refusing to watch him leave.

I heard the door close softly a moment later.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Emilio.

I stared at the screen. The picture was of us on our honeymoon in Bali. I swiped to answer, stabbing the speaker button.

"Did you get the flowers?" His voice was warm, casual. As if he hadn't introduced his illegitimate child to our entire social circle twelve hours ago.

"Marcus took them with the trash," I said.

A pause. "Elana, baby, don't be like this. Leo... it was a surprise to me too. I wanted to tell you, but the timing was never right. You were so focused on your career, on Zurich..."

"So it's my fault?" I asked, leaning heavily against the cold marble counter. "My ambition made you sleep with Hayden Cleveland?"

"It happened years ago," he said quickly. "Before we were serious. Leo is... he's an accident, Elana. But he's my blood. I have to take care of him. I promise, I'll make it up to you. We can still have our plan. I'll buy you that villa in Tuscany. We can start trying for a baby next month."

Lies. Just pretty, expensive lies.

"I'm changing the door codes," I said.

"What?"

"I'm changing the locks, Emilio. Don't come here tonight. I don't want to see you."

"Elana, this is my house too! You're being unreasonable. I'm trying to fix this!"

"You can't fix a corpse, Emilio."

I hung up.

I spent the afternoon erasing him.

I called the security company and reset the master code. Then, I walked through the house, seeing it for what it truly was. A stage.

I went into the guest bathroom-the one Emilio used when he came home late from "work." I opened the cabinet under the sink.

There, pushed to the back, was a bottle of lavender facial mist. He knew I hated lavender. It made me sneeze.

Next to it was a spare toothbrush. Pink.

He hadn't even tried to hide it. He had simply counted on me being too trusting-too stupid-to look.

I walked to his closet. I started pulling out his suits. In the pocket of a gray blazer, I found a folded photograph. It was recent. Emilio, Hayden, and Leo at Disneyland. They were wearing matching Mickey Mouse ears.

He had told me he was at a conference in Seattle that weekend.

I didn't rip the photo. I placed it gently on the bed next to the divorce papers. Evidence.

Later that evening, I had to make an appearance. It was unavoidable. The company gala for the scholarship fund. If I didn't go, I forfeited the grant.

I wore black. Not a mourning dress, but armor.

When I walked into the hall, the conversation didn't just fade; it died.

I felt the eyes. The pity. The glee.

"Did you hear?" a woman whispered loudly near the bar. "Hayden is practically his wife in everything but paper. They say they've been together for six years."

Six years. We had been married for four.

I grabbed a sparkling water, my knuckles turning white around the glass.

Then, the doors opened. Hayden walked in. She wasn't hiding anymore. She wore a white dress that looked suspiciously, aggressively bridal.

She was talking to the CFO, laughing about Emilio's golf swing.

"Oh, Emilio hates his irons," she chirped. "I always tell him to switch to graphite."

She spoke with the easy authority of a wife.

Emilio appeared behind her. He saw me. His face fell, then instantly rearranged itself into a mask of concern. He started walking toward me, leaving Hayden's side.

"Elana," he reached for my arm. "You look... tired."

"Don't touch me," I said, stepping back as if he were contagious.

"Everyone is watching," he hissed through a smile. "Stop acting like a child. We are a team."

"We were never a team," I said, my voice carrying clearly enough for the CFO to hear. "I was just the placeholder until you decided to bring the real lineup onto the field."

Emilio's face flushed red. "That is not true. Let's go home."

"I am going home," I said. "You are going to explain to your girlfriend why you're still married."

I turned and walked out, my head held high, though my hands trembled beneath the fabric of my dress.

I got into a taxi. I watched the city lights blur past.

When I got home, I saw Marcus's car in the driveway. He was loading boxes into the trunk.

"What are you doing?" I asked, getting out of the taxi.

"Mr. Acosta called," Marcus said, refusing to meet my eyes. "He said to... pack up some of your things. To make space."

"Make space for what?"

Marcus pointed to a box on the ground. Inside was my architectural model-the one that won me the scholarship. It was crushed.

A heavy boot print was stamped right in the center of the delicate balsa wood structure, snapping the spine of my work.

"He said it was taking up too much room in the study," Marcus whispered, the words clearly tasting like ash in his mouth. "He needs to set up a playroom. For Leo."

I looked at my broken work. My broken life.

I didn't cry. The tears were gone.

I walked past Marcus, into the house, and picked up my phone. I dialed Ayla, the program director in Zurich.

"Elana?" she answered. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm coming," I said. My voice was ice. "Book the flight. I'm ready to leave."