The apartment smelled like her now. Bridget's perfume had gotten into the curtains, the throw pillows, even the towels in the bathroom I used every morning. I scrubbed everything. I lit candles. Nothing worked. It was like she'd already moved in without ever carrying a single box.

I stopped sleeping. I'd lie on my side of the bed, staring at the ceiling, and around midnight I'd get up and put on sneakers and walk. Just walk. Down to the river and back. Past the bodega on the corner where the guy behind the counter started to recognize me, started nodding instead of asking if I needed help. I didn't need help. I needed to not be in that apartment.

I lost track of days. I know it was five nights after the gala because I counted the times I hadn't cried, and I was proud of that number the way you're proud of a diet you're barely surviving.

On the sixth night, I came home and Cassius was there.

He was standing in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, which was strange enough on its own. Cassius didn't roll up his sleeves. He didn't stand in kitchens.

"You're up late," I said. I didn't take off my coat.

"I was waiting for you." He said it like it was normal. Like the last two weeks hadn't happened.

I just looked at him.

"Sit down," he said. "Let me make you something."

"I'm not hungry."

"Not food." He turned around and there was a small pot already on the stove, water simmering, and next to it a jar of ginger, sliced thin the way I liked it. Not the way the housekeeper did it. The way I did it, when I made it myself.

Something in my chest folded in on itself.

He used to make me ginger tea in the first year, back when he still noticed things like a sore throat or a bad day. He hadn't made it in — I didn't even know. Years. I'd stopped expecting it so long ago I'd forgotten I used to expect it at all.

"Why now," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted.

"Does it matter?" He poured the water over the ginger, added honey, stirred it slow. He brought the mug to me himself. His hand brushed mine when he passed it over, and God help me, I let myself believe for one second that this meant something. That some part of him had woken up. That the man who used to remember how I liked my tea was still in there, buried under the version of him that bought bracelets for cashiers.

I was so tired of being right about him. I wanted, just once, to be wrong.

I drank it.

It tasted like it always had — sharp and warm, ginger biting the back of my throat, honey smoothing it out. I closed my eyes for a second. When I opened them, the kitchen looked slightly wrong, like the edges of everything had gone soft, like I was looking at it through water.

"Cassius," I said, and my own voice sounded far away, underwater too. "I don't feel—"

He was watching me. Not with worry. With something else. Something flat and waiting.

The mug slipped out of my hand. I don't remember it hitting the floor.

—

When I came back, the ceiling was wrong.

Not my ceiling. No crown molding I recognized, no water stain shaped like a rabbit that I used to stare at during sleepless nights. This ceiling was smooth and white and unfamiliar, and there was a chandelier I had never seen in my life.

I sat up too fast and the room tilted. My mouth was dry as paper. My limbs felt like they belonged to someone else, heavy and slow to respond, like I was moving through syrup.

I was fully dressed. That registered somewhere underneath the panic, a small cold fact I grabbed onto. Dressed. Shoes still on. My coat draped over a chair I didn't recognize either.

"Where—" My voice cracked. I looked around. Hotel room. Expensive one. Heavy drapes, a skyline through the gap in them that wasn't my skyline. "Hello?"

A door opened from an adjoining room, slow, deliberate, like whoever was on the other side wanted me to see them coming before they were fully in the frame.

A man. Tall, dark suit jacket already off, sleeves rolled to the forearm. I didn't know him. My heart slammed once, hard, and I scrambled back against the headboard, and he stopped immediately, hands lifting, palms out, like he was showing me he wasn't holding anything.

"Don't come closer," I said. My voice shook now. There was no hiding it anymore.

"I won't." He stayed exactly where he was, a good ten feet away, and didn't move again. "My name is Rhys Carpenter. You're at The Langham. You're safe."

"Safe." I repeated the word like it was in a language I used to know but had forgotten. "Where's Cassius. What did he—"

"I haven't touched you," he said, before I could finish the question. Quiet. Even. Like he'd rehearsed it, or like he needed me to hear that sentence before any other sentence existed. "I want you to hear that first. I haven't touched you. I called a physician the second I understood what he'd done. She's on her way now."

The room swam. I pressed my palm flat against the cool sheet beneath me, trying to find something solid, something that wouldn't move.

"What he'd done," I said. "What did he do."

Rhys didn't answer right away. And in the silence before he did, I already knew — some buried, sober part of me already knew — that whatever he was about to say would be the last piece of the man I'd loved for six years, breaking off and sinking somewhere I'd never get it back.

The physician was a small woman with silver-streaked hair and very steady hands. She didn't ask me questions I couldn't answer. She just worked — blood pressure cuff, penlight, a clean IV line she set up with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this before, in rooms like this, for reasons she never wrote down. I watched her hands the whole time. It was easier than looking at anything else.

When she was done, she packed her bag and said something low to Rhys near the door. He nodded. She left without looking back at me, and I was grateful for that too.

The room was very quiet after.

Rhys pulled a chair to the small table by the window and sat down. He didn't move it closer to me. He left the full width of the table between us, and I noticed that — the deliberate distance — the way you notice everything when your body is still half-numb and your mind is running on pure cold animal attention.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked.

"Tell me," I said. "Just tell me."

He looked at me for a moment. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and set his phone on the table, screen up, and slid it across to me.

I looked down.

It was a message. From an address I recognized — Cassius's assistant, Marcus. The kind of man who sent emails at eleven at night and never used a single unnecessary word.

*Mr. Carpenter — per Mr. Cunningham's instruction, the attached arrangement has been made as a gesture of goodwill ahead of Thursday's merger discussion. Ms. Hart will be brought to your suite at The Langham at 11 p.m. Mr. Cunningham asks only that this remain between principals. He considers it a demonstration of his commitment to the partnership.*

I read it once.

Then I read it again.

The words didn't change.

*Gesture of goodwill.* Like I was a bottle of wine. Like I was something you sent ahead of a meeting to put the other party in a good mood.

I set the phone down very carefully, the way you set something down when your hands are shaking and you don't want anyone to see.

I stared at the table.

Six years. Six years of folding his shirts. Of learning the names of his board members, his father's preferences, his mother's cold silences. Six years of making myself smaller and quieter and more useful, telling myself that love didn't always look like being chosen in public. That it was enough to be chosen in private.

He had never chosen me at all.

I had been a line on a balance sheet this whole time, and I hadn't even known it.

"Emilia."

I looked up. Rhys was watching me. Not with pity. Not with the careful, managed sympathy people use when they want credit for caring. Just watching, steady, like he was willing to sit there as long as it took.

"What do you want from me?" I asked. My voice came out flat. I needed to know. I needed the number, the cost, the thing that was going to be asked of me in return for this room and that physician and whatever came next.

"Nothing," he said.

I waited for the rest of the sentence. There was no rest of the sentence.

"That's not how this works," I said.

"I know that's what you've been taught." He didn't say it unkindly. "But that's my answer."

I searched his face. I was good at reading faces — six years in Cassius's world had made me good at it, the way you get good at things you have to do to survive. I looked for the angle. The performance. The tell that would show me where the real cost was hiding.

I found nothing.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, and his voice stayed even.

"There's an MBA program at London Business School. I can fund it — tuition, housing, a living stipend for the full two years. I can have everything arranged within forty-eight hours." He paused. "You would leave clean. No trace. No forwarding address. Cassius would have nothing to find."

The skyline sat behind him through the gap in the drapes. Someone else's city, lit up and indifferent.

"Why," I said.

"Because you're worth more than what just happened to you. And because I can." He said it simply, like it wasn't a remarkable thing to say. "That's all."

I sat with that.

For a long time I just sat with it, turning it over the way you turn something over when you're looking for the crack, the flaw, the place where it falls apart.

It didn't fall apart.

"I need to think," I said finally.

He nodded. He stood, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, and walked to the adjoining door without another word.

He didn't ask when I'd decide. He didn't linger in the doorway. He just left, quietly, and the door clicked shut behind him.

I sat alone in the expensive room with the unfamiliar ceiling and the city outside that didn't know my name.

For the first time in six years, no one was waiting for me to be useful.

I pressed both palms flat on the table and breathed.