Chapter 2

Michael's face darkened at my refusal.

Then the elevator jolted, lights flickering out, plunging us into blackness.

I fumbled for my phone, turning on the flashlight.

The beam caught Michael. He had Jessica pulled tight against him, murmuring reassurances.

A few minutes later, the power hummed back on. The elevator descended.

When we reached the ground floor, Michael offered, "I can give you a ride."

Before I could answer, Jessica swayed, then crumpled to the floor.

Michael shoved me aside without a second glance, scooped her up, and sprinted towards the urgent care clinic across the street.

My phone clattered to the marble floor, screen shattering.

I picked it up, hailed a cab, and went to see the first apartment.

Later that afternoon, Michael's assistant delivered a small, elegant box of pastries to my desk.

Thirty minutes earlier, Jessica had posted an Instagram story: [He spoils me! Baby can't finish all this, no way!] The picture showed a table laden with the exact same French pastries.

"Thanks," I said, not opening the box.

Michael, who had apparently followed his assistant, looked puzzled. "Sarah, why are you being so polite?"

I didn't answer directly. "If there's nothing else, I need to print something."

When I returned from the printer with my signed resignation letter, Michael was gone.

A Post-it note stuck to my monitor: "Come up to my office when you're done."

I peeled off the note, dropped it and the pastry box into the trash, and walked into my boss's office.

My boss tried to convince me to stay. Seeing I was determined, she finally accepted my letter.

One more week, then I was free.

That night, around ten, Michael called. I was at a farewell dinner with my team.

A male colleague, thinking it was his phone, answered.

When I took the call, Michael's voice was dangerously low. "Sarah, where the hell are you this late?"

"Out," I replied.

"Send me your location. I'll pick you up."

He hung up.

I sent the pin. We stayed until the restaurant closed.

Michael never showed.

I checked Jessica's Instagram. Sure enough, a new post: a selfie of her arm with an IV drip, captioned: [Flare-up. Alone in the ER. So scared. 😥]

I took a cab home, showered, and went to sleep.

Around 3 AM, Michael, smelling of stale hospital air and exhaustion, shook me awake.

"Sarah," he said, his voice flat. "I'm hungry. Make me some of that blueberry chia seed pudding."

He hated blueberries. He never touched chia seeds.

I knew who it was for. Jessica had once claimed it was the only thing she could stomach during her "episodes." It was a fussy, time-consuming recipe.

I remembered the scholarship. Years ago, when my parents' business almost went under, Michael, then just a driven college senior, had pulled strings, coached me, helped me secure the grant that paid for my entire degree at NYU. A lifeline.

I got out of bed.

He watched me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "You can make it in the morning."

I cut him off, my voice even. "Does she need anything else?"