Chapter 1

"Are you sure you packed the antique vase?" Sarah Miller asked, her voice echoing slightly in the half-empty living room.

Boxes were stacked against the walls, labeled in her neat handwriting: KITCHEN, BOOKS, MEMORIES. Tomorrow, they were moving. A new life in a new country, a fresh start for her career, and, she hoped, for her marriage.

David Chen didn' t look up from his laptop. He sat at the dining table, the single piece of furniture not yet shrouded in plastic. "It' s handled."

His tone was flat, clipped. It had been for years. Sarah told herself it was the stress of his work. David was a brilliant architect, and brilliance, she had learned, required a kind of distance, a world of his own she wasn't always invited into.

"I was just worried. Your grandmother loved that vase."

"I said it' s handled, Sarah."

His fingers kept typing, a relentless, quiet rhythm that filled the space between them. She stood there for a moment, an unpacked photo album in her hands, feeling like a ghost in her own home. She wanted to bridge the gap, to say something that would make him look at her, really see her.

"I' m excited, David. About the move. It' ll be good for us."

He finally stopped typing but still didn' t raise his head. His phone buzzed on the table, a sharp, insistent sound. He picked it up instantly.

"I have to take this," he said, his voice already softer, different.

He stood and walked toward the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. Sarah couldn' t hear the words, but she saw his posture change. The tension in his shoulders eased. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture she hadn't seen him make in a long time.

He was talking to Lisa Chang. Sarah knew it without having to see the name on the screen. Lisa, the brilliant neurosurgeon. Lisa, his childhood friend. Lisa, a name that had become a quiet shadow in their marriage.

Sarah walked over to a box labeled MEMORIES and pulled out an old, framed photograph. It was from college. David had his arm around her, both of them grinning, young and impossibly happy. Tucked behind it was an older, faded picture she' d found once in his desk drawer. A teenage David with a girl with serious eyes and a defiant smile. Lisa. He' d told her they were just friends, a bond forged in childhood that was purely platonic. Sarah had wanted to believe him.

She put the photo back and looked at David on the balcony. He was smiling now, a genuine, unguarded smile that hurt her to see because it wasn't for her. The phone call ended. He came back inside, his face once again a cool, professional mask.

"Sorry about that," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Just work."

He sat back down at the table and pushed a thick manila folder toward her. "I need you to sign these before the movers get here in the morning."

"What is it?" she asked, picking it up. It felt heavy, final.

"Just some standard legal forms for the international transfer of our assets. Liability waivers for the company. The lawyers said it' s urgent."

He tapped his pen on the table impatiently. "It' s the last thing, Sarah. Then we' re done."

She trusted him. In spite of the distance, the coldness, a part of her still clung to the man she had married, the man she believed was still in there somewhere. She opened the folder. The pages were dense with legal text she didn't understand. She saw their names, addresses, financial details. It looked official.

She found the signature lines, marked with small yellow arrow stickers. She picked up the pen.

"Are you sure I don' t need to read this more carefully?"

"Do you not trust me?" he asked, his voice low. "It' s just a formality. I' ve already signed my part."

The question stung. Of course she trusted him. Her whole life was built on that trust. She signed each page where the arrows pointed. Sarah Miller. Her name looked foreign, a signature on a life she was about to leave behind.

She pushed the folder back to him. He took it, his expression unreadable. He stood up and put it in his briefcase, snapping it shut with a loud click.

"I' ve got to go to the office for a few hours. Finalize some things."

"Now? It' s almost nine."

"It' s necessary," he said, grabbing his keys. He didn' t kiss her goodbye. He didn' t even look at her as he walked out the door, leaving her alone with the boxes and the silence.

Later, she tried to call him. Just a small question about the shipping insurance. The call went straight to voicemail. His inbox was full. She stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the neatly packed pieces of her life. She reached down and touched the box labeled MEMORIES. It felt cold. For the first time, she felt a real, sharp pang of fear. The move was supposed to be a new beginning, but it felt like an end.