Chapter 2 The Ghost in the Penthouse

​The penthouse was exactly as I had left it: sterile, expensive, and silent.

​It was a masterpiece of glass and marble, a reflection of Julian's soul. Everything had its place, and nothing was allowed to be messy including me. For three years, I had moved through these halls like a shadow, careful not to leave a fingerprint on the stainless steel or a footprint on the plush white carpets.

​I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was stocked with the things Julian liked artisan cheeses, expensive wine, and jars of spicy peppers that made my eyes water just looking at them.

​My stomach let out a sharp, painful cramp.

​I reached for a carton of milk, the only thing that could coat my damaged stomach lining after years of trying to be the "perfect wife" who shared her husband's palate. I remembered our first anniversary. I had cooked a mild, creamy pasta. Julian had taken one bite, set his fork down, and reached for the hot sauce.

​"It's a bit bland, isn't it, Lia?" he had said, not unkindly, but with a dismissive edge that hurt worse than a scream. "Try to put some life into it next time."

​I had spent the next two years burning my throat and scarring my stomach just to "put some life" into his meals. I realized now, as I sipped the cold milk, that it wasn't the food that was bland to him. It was me.

​I set the glass down and headed to our bedroom no, his bedroom. I had only been a guest there.

​I pulled a suitcase from the back of the closet. It was the same one I had brought when I moved in, full of hope and cheap cotton dresses. I began to pack, but I didn't take everything. If I took everything at once, he would notice. I only took the things that mattered my grandmother's necklace, my favorite worn-out novels, and the documents I had kept hidden in the lining of my laptop bag.

​Then, I saw it.

​On the bottom shelf of his nightstand sat the photo album.

​My hand hovered over it. I knew I shouldn't. I knew it would only feel like pouring acid on an open wound. But the urge was a physical ache. I pulled it out and opened the cover.

​It was a chronicle of devotion.

​Elizabeth at sixteen, laughing in a sun-drenched garden. Elizabeth at twenty-one, wearing a graduation gown. Elizabeth on her wedding day to another man Julian had even kept a photo of her in her bridal veil, her eyes bright with a love that wasn't for him.

​And then, the most recent photo. It was a candid shot, likely taken by Julian himself during one of their "lunches" last month. She was smiling at the camera, a glass of wine in her hand. The caption, written in Julian's elegant, precise handwriting, read: Finally, the door is open.

​"The door is open for her," I whispered, the paper crinkling under my thumb. "Because you never even bothered to lock the one where I was standing."

​A sudden sound the heavy thud of the front door and the chime of the security system sent a jolt of electricity through my spine.

​Julian was home. Early.

​I slammed the album shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. I kicked my suitcase under the bed, my heart racing so fast I felt dizzy. I barely had time to smooth my hair before the bedroom door swung open.

​Julian stood in the doorway, loosening his tie. He looked exhausted, but there was a lingering spark in his eyes that hadn't been there this morning. The scent of her perfume something expensive and floral clung to his jacket like a taunt.

​"You're still up," he remarked, tossing his blazer onto the armchair. He didn't look at me. He walked straight to the master bath and turned on the faucet.

​"I didn't expect you back so soon," I said, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

​He emerged from the bathroom, splashing water on his face. "The celebration cut short. Elizabeth's ex-husband is being difficult about the alimony. She's stressed." He paused, finally looking at me, but his gaze was transactional. "I'll be handling her case personally. I'll be spending a lot of time at her estate for the next few weeks to keep it out of the public eye."

​The irony was a bitter pill. The famous divorce lawyer was going to spend his days freeing the woman he loved, while completely unaware that his own wife had already freed herself.

​"I see," I said softly. "Will you be staying there?"

​"Most nights," he said, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to tell his wife. "It's more efficient."

​He walked toward the bed, stopping just inches from where my suitcase was hidden. My breath hitched. If he looked down, if he kicked the dust ruffle, it was over.

​Instead, he sat on the edge of the mattress and sighed. "Lia, about that paperwork today. I didn't mean to be sharp with you at the office. It's just... Elizabeth was there, and things are complicated."

​"I know how complicated things are, Julian," I said, standing by the window so he couldn't see the tears threatening to spill.

​"Good." He laid back, closing his eyes. "You've always been the sensible one. That's why I married you. You don't demand things. You don't make scenes."

​Because I was too busy dying inside to make a scene, I thought.

​"Julian?"

​"Mmm?"

Do you remember what today is?"

There was a long silence. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner.

"Is it someone's birthday?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep. "My mother's? I'll have my secretary send flowers tomorrow."

"No," I said, looking out at the city lights. "It's nothing. Go to sleep."

It was our third anniversary. The day I had planned to tell him that I had finally seen a specialist about my stomach issues and that the doctor had told me the stress of my marriage was literally eating me alive.

But Julian was already breathing deeply, lost in a dream where Elizabeth Osborne was the lead actress.

I turned away from the man I had loved for seven years and looked at the reflection of the woman in the window. She looked tired. She looked thin. But her eyes were finally clear.

I reached under the bed and felt the handle of my suitcase.

He thought I was the "sensible" one. He thought I was the wife who didn't make scenes.

He was right. I wasn't going to make a scene.

I was going to make a disappearance.

The next morning, Julian wakes up to a quiet house. For the first time, his coffee isn't made, and his suit isn't pressed. He assumes Lia is just sleeping in. But when he opens his top desk drawer to find his spare car keys, he finds something else instead: a small, velvet box containing Lia's wedding ring and a note that says only three words.