Chapter 2 No.2

The next morning, Clare sat on the edge of their bed and looked at the diamond engagement ring on her left hand.

It was a flawless, three-carat stone that usually caught the light and shattered it into a hundred tiny rainbows.

Today, it just looked like a piece of glass. A beautiful, heavy promise that felt like a lie.

She slowly, carefully worked the ring off her finger. Her knuckles were swollen from the injury, and the movement sent a fresh wave of pain up her arm.

She placed it in its velvet box on the nightstand and closed the lid. The soft click echoed in the silent room.

She spent the next hour moving through the apartment like a ghost. She gathered the framed photos of them together-laughing in the Hamptons, skiing in Aspen, smiling at a charity gala. She put them all in a storage box in the back of her closet.

She was burying the evidence of their shared life. She was burying the girl who had believed in it.

The deepest cut was a small, worn photograph she kept in her wallet. It was from their first year in New York. She was eighteen, he was twenty-four. They were sitting on a park bench, and he was looking at her with a softness she hadn't seen in years.

She held it over the kitchen trash can. Her hand trembled.

For a long moment, she couldn't let go. That boy had saved her.

Then she remembered the coldness in his eyes the night before.

She dropped the photo. It landed face down on a bed of coffee grounds.

Chase came home late that evening, humming a tune. He found her on the sofa, staring at the blank television screen.

"Good news," he said, kissing the top of her head. "I smoothed things over with the salon's insurance. They'll cover your medical bills. No need to get lawyers involved."

He was proud of himself. He had solved the problem.

His problem. Not hers.

"And," he continued, "I was thinking. Our wedding is in two weeks. If your hands aren't better... well, Karis is so torn up about this. She offered to come with me to St. Barts. Just to keep me company. We can't let the booking go to waste, right?"

Clare didn't move. She didn't speak.

She felt the last piece of her hope crumble into dust. He was planning their honeymoon with another woman.

He didn't even see the wound. He just kept talking.

"You look pale," he said, finally noticing her. "You take your painkillers?"

She shook her head.

He went to the bathroom and came back with a pill and a glass of water. "Here. Take this. You need to rest."

She looked at the small white pill in his palm.

She took it without a word and swallowed it down with the water. The pill was a bitter lump in her throat.

She was swallowing his version of the story. One last time.

The pain in her hands was a dull, distant throb. The pain in her chest was sharp and real. It was the only thing that felt like her own.