Chapter 7

Back in the temporary safety of the curtained-off room, Averie's calm was absolute. It was the eerie stillness that comes after a devastating storm.

She looked at Eleanor, her eyes clear and resolute. "Ellie, I need you to call that lawyer friend of yours. The best one you know. The most ruthless one."

Eleanor saw the look on her face and knew this was different. This wasn't a moment of anger. This was a final verdict. "Of course," she said, already pulling out her phone. "I'll call him right now."

"I'm going back to the apartment," Averie said, her voice steady. "I need to get my things."

"I'm coming with you," Eleanor insisted. "What if that bastard shows up?"

Averie shook her head. "He won't. He's at the hospital, playing the devoted protector to his true love." The words were laced with ice. "This is something I need to do alone."

Eleanor hesitated, then nodded, understanding her friend's need for closure. "Okay. I'll wait for you at the coffee shop downstairs."

A taxi ride later, Averie stood in front of the penthouse door. The place she had called home for three years. It had never felt less like one.

As she stepped inside, the faint, lingering aroma of the rosemary steak she had cooked hours ago met her. The scent was no longer inviting; it was the smell of her own foolishness.

She walked past the ruined dinner and went straight to the enormous walk-in closet. One side was a meticulous landscape of Jarett's bespoke suits and designer watches. The other side was a riot of color-dresses, shoes, and handbags, most with the tags still on, all bought for her by him.

She once thought it was a sign of his affection. Now she saw it for what it was: the decor for a very expensive cage.

She ignored it all. From the very back of the closet, she dragged out a small, worn suitcase. It was the only piece of luggage she had brought with her when she first moved in.

Methodically, she began to pack. But she only took what was truly hers.

A stack of old textbooks from college. A portfolio of her own design sketches. A few faded, comfortable t-shirts and a pair of worn-in jeans. A single framed photograph of her with her adoptive parents, taken years ago on a rare happy day.

She didn't touch the jewels. She didn't touch the designer clothes. She didn't touch a single thing he had ever given her.

She opened a velvet-lined jewelry box and her eyes fell on her wedding ring-a flawless, obscenely large pink diamond. He had placed it on her finger with a cold, business-like efficiency. She had pretended it was a moment of romance.

Without a second's hesitation, she pulled the ring from her finger. It felt surprisingly light. She dropped it back into the box and snapped the lid shut.

She would walk out of this marriage with nothing he had given her. It was the only piece of her dignity she had left to claim.

When she was done, the small suitcase was barely half-full. It was a stark, pathetic measure of how little of herself she had managed to keep in this marriage.

She zipped the suitcase and walked back into the living room. Her eyes landed on the anniversary card she had left on the coffee table, the one she had filled with heartfelt, hopeful words.

She picked it up, read her own naive handwriting, and then, with no expression on her face, she ripped it cleanly in two. She dropped the pieces into the trash can.

With that final act, she pulled her suitcase behind her and walked out of the apartment, not once looking back. She was leaving the same way she had arrived three years ago: completely and utterly alone.