Chapter 8

The penthouse was silent when she returned. It felt vast and cold, no longer a home but a museum of a life that was no longer hers.

She walked into their enormous walk-in closet. His side was a testament to his vanity-rows of bespoke suits and Italian shoes. Her side was a collection of beautiful things he had bought to dress his beautiful wife.

She remembered a gala two years ago. He had been on stage, accepting an award. He'd looked out at her in the audience and said, "I owe all of my success to my wife, Colette." The room had erupted in applause. People had looked at her with such envy.

It was all a performance. Their entire marriage had been a stage play for public consumption.

She opened her jewelry drawer. It was a treasure trove of his apologies and celebrations. A Van Cleef & Arpels necklace for their first anniversary. A Patek Philippe watch for her thirtieth birthday. A clumsy, handmade ring he'd given her on their first date, long before the money and the fame.

Each piece was a memory. Each memory was now tainted, poisoned by the truth.

Methodically, she began to remove every piece of jewelry, dropping them one by one into a velvet pouch.

In the study, she took their wedding portrait down from the wall. In the photo, she was beaming, her head resting on his shoulder. She looked so young. So naive. She placed the photo face down on the floor.

She found their marriage certificate in his desk drawer. She took a pair of scissors and cut it neatly in half.

Then, she packed.

She took only what was truly hers. A few simple dresses, her books, her laptop. She left behind the designer handbags, the couture gowns, the life he had curated for her. She wanted none of it.

She took the velvet pouch of jewelry, the severed marriage certificate, her engagement ring, and her wedding band. She walked to the safe in the bedroom and placed them all inside. This was the tomb of her marriage.

She locked the safe, changing the code to a series of numbers that had nothing to do with him. She added the vial of Asidancanmab. Her past and her future, locked away together.

When she was done, she stood in the center of the living room. The silence was no longer oppressive. It was peaceful.

She was sick. She was alone. But for the first time in a very long time, she was free.

She sent a text to her best friend, Sloane Adler.

Sloane, I left him. Can I stay with you tonight?

Her phone rang almost instantly. Sloane's voice was a whirlwind of shock and concern.

"I'm on my way," Colette said, cutting her off gently.

She grabbed her small suitcase. At the door, she paused and placed her key to the penthouse on the entryway table.

She closed the door behind her and didn't look back. The elevator descended, carrying her away from her old life and toward whatever came next.