Chapter 3

A week later, Molly sent me a link with no comment.

It was an article from Politico. The headline read: "D.C.' s Rising Stars: The 30 Under 30 Shaping Policy on the Hill."

I clicked it. And there she was. Gabrielle Chavez, with a full-page, glowing profile. It detailed her sharp political instincts, her tireless work ethic, her Georgetown pedigree.

And next to the text was a picture.

It was from a recent gala, one Matthew had told me was "staff only." In the photo, he and Gabrielle were standing close together, laughing at something off-camera. His hand was resting on the small of her back. They looked perfectly matched, a unit. A power couple.

I scrolled down to the online comments section. It was a sea of their mutual friends and colleagues.

"The dream team! You two are unstoppable."

"Power-duo is right! Watch out, Washington."

Then I saw a comment from Andrew, Matthew' s closest friend.

"Careful, Matt, or people will talk! Wouldn' t want the homebody to get the wrong idea. ;)"

The winking emoji felt like a slap. A few years ago, a comment like that would have destroyed me. I would have cried. I would have confronted Matthew, who would have told me it was a joke, that I was being too sensitive, that I didn' t understand the D.C. culture of banter.

Now, I felt nothing. Just a cold, hard clarity. It wasn' t a joke. It was the truth, spoken out loud for everyone to see. I was the homebody. I was the wrong idea.

I closed the laptop. The old pain was gone, replaced by a firm, unshakeable resolve.

That evening, an email landed in my inbox. The subject line made my heart stop.

"Blackwood Writer' s Residency: An Update on Your Application."

My hand was shaking as I clicked it open.

"Dear Stella Jones, On behalf of the selection committee, we are delighted to offer you a place at the upcoming fall residency..."

I read the words over and over. I was in.

I walked into the living room, my mind buzzing. Matthew came home a few hours later, already dressed in a tuxedo for another work event. He was on his phone, his back to me.

His voice was soft, encouraging, a tone he never used with me anymore.

"No, you did the right thing, Gabrielle. He' s just testing you. Hold your ground. You' ve got this."

He turned then and saw me watching him from the doorway. His expression froze. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, guarded mask.

"I have to go," he said into the phone, his eyes still on me.

He hung up, grabbed his keys from the bowl by the door, and walked out without another word.

I listened to his footsteps fade down the hall.

Then I went into the bedroom and pulled my largest suitcase from the top of the closet. I started packing.