Chapter 3

The next day, Maya began in earnest.

She listed the expensive Scandinavian sofa they – no, she – had bought two years ago on a high-end consignment site. It sold within hours.

The minimalist coffee table, the artisan rug, the limited-edition art prints she' d carefully chosen. All photographed, listed, sold.

The money went straight into her Agency-linked account, the one Ethan didn't know existed.

Joint accounts, plural. She' d opened them thinking of shared futures. He' d used them as an extension of his own wallet, mostly for Olivia-related expenses. She transferred her meticulously documented contributions, plus a calculated interest based on her lost investment opportunities, to her secure account. What was left was his salary, or what remained of it after his own spending.

Ethan came home to a noticeably barer living room.

"Whoa, what happened in here? Did we get robbed?" He actually laughed, like it was a joke.

"Sold some things we didn't need," Maya said, packing a box with her professional-grade drawing pens and markers. The box was labeled "M.A. - Personal Assets."

"Sold them? Like, the couch? Why? I liked that couch."

"It was time for a change."

He watched her pack. "Are those your art supplies? Where are you taking them?"

"Putting some things into storage."

He wandered into the kitchen. "Hey, where's the espresso machine? The good one?"

"Sold it too. We never used it enough." He never used it. She' d bought it hoping they' d have quiet weekend mornings together. They never did.

He looked genuinely confused. "But... why all of a sudden? Are we moving? You didn't say anything."

Maya just shrugged.

Later, she sat at her new, powerful laptop, researching advanced digital sculpting software. The Agency rewards for successful Covenant completion included being able to take "acquired assets" with her. She was acquiring quite a bit.

She felt a lightness she hadn't experienced in years. Each item sold, each dollar transferred, was a cord cut.

Ethan found her looking at a website for a small coastal town in Maine, known for its art scene.

"Maine? What are you looking at that for?"

"Just browsing," she said.

He frowned. "You're acting really weird, Maya."

She finally looked at him. "Am I?"

Her calm was a wall he couldn't seem to penetrate, and it was clearly unnerving him. He was used to her quiet frustration, her occasional flare-ups of anger, her eventual, weary resignation. This placid disinterest was new. And, to him, alarming.