Chapter 3 The Empty Chair

​The morning sun hit the penthouse with a blinding, clinical light.

​I woke up at 6:00 AM, a habit drilled into me by three years of being Julian's unpaid personal assistant. Usually, by 6:15 AM, the smell of dark roast coffee would be wafting toward the bedroom, and his ironed shirt would be hanging on the valet stand.

​Not today.

​I stayed in bed, watching the dust motes dance in the sunlight, listening to the silence of a house that was finally starting to breathe without me.

​At 6:45 AM, I heard the bed creak in the master suite. Then came the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of a man who expected the world to be ready for him the moment he opened his eyes.

​I held my breath as Julian's footsteps stopped in the hallway. I knew exactly what he was seeing: the kitchen was dark. The espresso machine was cold. The breakfast nook, usually set with a linen napkin and his favorite grapefruit, was bare.

​"Lia?"

​His voice was gruff with sleep, tinged with a hint of confusion. He didn't come to my room. He never did. He simply assumed I was lagging behind.

​"Lia, is the power out? Why isn't the coffee ready?"

​I didn't answer. I pulled the duvet tighter, a small, cold spark of satisfaction flickering in my chest. Find it yourself, Julian. Find your life without me.

​I heard him huff, the sound of a man inconvenienced by a minor glitch in his perfect system. I heard the clatter of him trying to operate the high-end coffee maker a machine he hadn't touched since the day the installers left. The sound of a metal spoon hitting the floor rang out like a gunshot in the silent penthouse.

​"Damn it," he muttered.

​Twenty minutes later, he was gone. He didn't check on me. He didn't ask if I was sick. He just grabbed his briefcase and slammed the door, likely heading to a cafe near the office or perhaps straight to Elizabeth's estate to have a "perfect" breakfast with her.

​The moment the security system beeped to signal his departure, I sprang into action.

​I had exactly eight hours before he would even think about returning.

​I called the moving service I had arranged. "I have five boxes and one piece of furniture," I told the dispatcher. "I need them picked up within the hour. Discreetly."

​As I waited, I walked through the living room. My eyes landed on the wedding portrait the one I had spent three years polishing, making sure not a single speck of dust touched Julian's forced, handsome smile.

​I didn't cry this time. I simply walked over, unhooked it from the wall, and watched it thud onto the white carpet. Without the frame, the wall looked scarred, a pale rectangle of un-faded paint marking the spot where our lie used to hang.

​I took a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer. I didn't destroy the whole photo. I simply cut myself out of it.

​I left Julian standing there in the frame alone, looking at nothing. I tucked the cutout of my own face into my pocket and tossed the rest, frame and all, into the large trash bin in the service hallway.

​One piece gone, I thought. A thousand to go.

​By noon, my small apartment in the older, more vibrant district of the city was ready. It was small, filled with sunlight and the smell of jasmine from the balcony not the scent of Julian's expensive cologne.

​I returned to the penthouse for one final task.

​I went to the study. This was Julian's sanctuary, the place where he won his cases and ignored his wife. I opened the top drawer of his desk. Nestled between his gold fountain pens and his legal seals was a small, velvet box.

​I opened it. My wedding ring a five-carat diamond that had always felt like a shackle glittered under the desk lamp. I placed it on his leather desk pad.

​Next to it, I placed a small, handwritten note.

​I didn't write a long, weeping letter. I didn't beg for him to realize what he had lost. That would give him too much power. Instead, I wrote three words that I knew would haunt a man of his intellect:

​"Check your signatures."

​I walked out of the penthouse, the weight of the last three years falling away with every step I took toward the elevator. I didn't look back. I didn't check the mirrors.

​I was no longer Lia Cohen, the secret wife.

​I was Lia Leighton. And I was finally, legally, dangerously free.

​Meanwhile, at Cohen & Associates Law Firm...

​Julian sat in his glass-walled office, his brow furrowed as he stared at the screen. For some reason, he couldn't concentrate. The coffee from the cafe had been too bitter. His shirt felt slightly wrinkled because he had to pick it out himself.

​"Julian?"

​Lewis Fitzroy leaned against the doorframe, a strange, knowing smirk on his face.

​"What is it, Lewis? I'm busy with Elizabeth's filing," Julian snapped, not looking up.

​"Just checking in," Lewis said, his voice smooth. "I saw a very interesting filing come across the clerk's desk this morning. A divorce petition for a 'Julian C.' and a 'Lia L.' Funny coincidence, don't you think?"

​Julian's pen stopped mid-air. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "What are you talking about? I don't have any clients with those initials right now."

​Lewis stepped into the room, dropping a photocopy onto Julian's desk. It was the last page of the document Julian had signed in the lobby the day before.

​"It's not a client, Jules," Lewis whispered, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and warning. "Look at the signature. It's yours. And look at the petitioner. It's your wife."

​Julian's face went deathly pale. He snatched the paper, his heart hammering against his ribs.

​"This... this is a property transfer," Julian hissed, though his hands began to shake. "She said it was for the house."

​"Flip the page, Julian," Lewis said softly. "Read the heading."

​As Julian turned the page, the words PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE blazed in black and white.

​At that exact moment, his phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number appeared on his screen.

The 30 days have started, Julian. Don't bother looking for me. You already signed me away.

Julian storms out of the office, driving like a madman back to the penthouse to confront Lia. But when he bursts through the door, shouting her name, he finds the house perfectly silent. Everything is in its place, except for one thing: every single trace of Lia Leighton her clothes, her scent, even her face in the photos has been surgically removed.