Chapter 2

The call came three days later. Thanksgiving morning. Snow was falling softly outside the tiny, sterile waiting room of the county hospital.

Grandma was gone.

The doctor, a kind man with tired eyes, said she'd just slipped away. No fight left.

I held her cold hand, the skin papery and thin. The image of Jack's laughing face at Le Cirque, Blair's diamond flashing, burned behind my eyelids.

He hadn't called. Not once.

I handled everything alone. The funeral arrangements, the small notice in the local paper. Our small town wrapped its arms around me, offering casseroles and condolences. It was a quiet, dignified grief, the kind Jack would never understand.

The day after the funeral, a thick envelope arrived. A job offer. Chief Pastry Chef at 'Aura,' a Michelin-starred restaurant in Seattle. I'd sent out applications months ago, a tiny seed of 'what if,' never really believing.

Seattle. A world away from Jack, from the life I thought I'd had.

A world away from the crushing weight of his indifference.

I booked a one-way ticket.

I was in our – *his* – apartment, gathering the last of my things: my professional-grade stand mixer (a gift to myself after my first big catering gig), my collection of antique cake molds, the tools of my trade. My life.

Jack came home earlier than usual. He'd been spending most nights at Blair's penthouse since their engagement. He found me in the kitchen, surrounded by boxes.

He looked surprised, then a little annoyed. "Still at it? I thought we talked about this."

"We didn't talk, Jack. You talked. I listened."

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Look, I know you're upset about your grandmother. I'm sorry, okay? But this... moving out? Isn't this a bit much?"

"A bit much?" My voice was dangerously quiet.

He came closer, tried to put his arms around me. I stepped back.

His eyes narrowed. "What's gotten into you, Emily? This isn't like you."

"The Emily you knew doesn't exist anymore, Jack. She died with my grandmother."

He flinched, a flicker of something – surprise? Guilt? – in his eyes. "Don't be dramatic. It's not my fault she was old and sick."

"No," I said. "It's your fault she died without hope."

He actually had the audacity to look offended. "That's not fair. I would have helped if you'd asked properly."

"Asked properly?" I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Like a beggar on the street? Is that how I should have asked for my own money?"

He frowned. "It wasn't 'your' money, Emily. It was *our* money. For our future. I was managing it."

"Managing it into Blair Kennedy's engagement ring, you mean?"

His face tightened. "That's different. That's... business. Family expectations. You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, I understand perfectly now." I picked up a heavy box labeled 'Baking Books.' "I understand that for seven years, I poured everything I had into you, into us. My time, my love, my money."

I remembered all the times I'd paid for our dates, telling myself he was saving for something big. All the birthdays and Christmases where my gifts were thoughtful, handmade things, while his were... absent. Or an afterthought. A cheap scarf he'd probably gotten as a freebie.

"You even had me sign IOUs, Jack," I said, the memory making me sick. "For groceries. For my share of the rent on *your* apartment. You said it was 'good financial practice.'"

He looked uncomfortable. "It was! It's important to be responsible with money."

"Your money, you mean. Not mine."

He reached for me again, his voice softening, that old manipulative charm seeping through. "Em, come on. Don't do this. We can work this out. I miss you. This whole thing with Blair... it's complicated. It's not what you think."

"I know exactly what it is, Jack." I hefted the box. "It's over."

He tried to block my way to the door. "Don't be like this. What about... what about the wedding? I told you, I'd give your grandmother a beautiful memorial, make it up to you."

The casual cruelty of his words, even now, was breathtaking.

"She's dead, Jack. You can't make it up to her. And you can't make it up to me."

I pushed past him. He didn't try to stop me again.

As I walked out of the apartment building, the cold November air hit my face. It felt clean. Free.