Chapter 2

The heart monitor beeped through the night.

When I woke again, there was a transfusion line in my arm, and my abdominal wound had been treated again to stop the bleeding.

The attending doctor handed the test results to Leon, his expression grave. "Acute postoperative liver insufficiency, compounded by a ruptured wound and hypothermia. A few more hours and she might not have made it to the operating room."

Leon signed the financial-responsibility forms and waited until the doctor left before pulling a chair to my bedside.

He didn't ask me why I had agreed to donate my liver to Celia. Instead, he placed a stack of architectural drawings in front of me.

It was the cultural center project that had won Grant Architecture the National Architecture Award the year before.

Adrian's name was printed on the cover.

Leon flipped to one of the hand-drawn sketches and traced the daylight study through the atrium, then tapped the detail preserving the original walls.

"I saw the original drafts at the juried exhibition.

"These lines aren't Adrian's. You're the one who leaves the guide lines half an inch past the edges, then softens them with a kneaded eraser."

My fingers curled.

For seven years, I had been the shadow behind Adrian.

He stood in front of the cameras, gave interviews, and walked up to accept the awards. I stayed up all night revising the plans, correcting structural issues, and handling the most complex heritage-building integrations.

He once told me that once the firm was stable, he would make me a named partner.

I waited for the firm's tenth anniversary. What I got instead was a betrayal paid for with my liver.

Leon set a cup of warm water on the nightstand without pressing me to take it.

"There's a liver-regeneration and burn-reconstruction team in Geneva. I've already reserved a bed. There's a medical flight tonight. You can go there for long-term treatment."

He also pulled out a legal representation agreement.

"My attorney will handle the divorce, the ownership of your work, and protecting your privacy. You won't have to see Adrian again or explain yourself to anyone."

I turned to the last page and picked up the pen.

My hand was trembling so badly that my signature came out crooked.

But I didn't stop.

"I'll go."

Leon looked at my signature. "It could take years. The treatment will be painful, and even after you recover, things may never go back to the way they were."

"I don't want things to go back to the way they were."

I pushed the agreement back to him.

"The sooner, the better."

Three days later, Adrian finally returned to our penthouse in Manhattan.

He brought a bouquet of lisianthus, the flowers I used to love, and set them casually on the entryway console.

The bedroom closet was empty.

My architecture books on the shelves, my coats in the walk-in closet, my favorite mug in the kitchen: all gone.

In the center of the vanity sat the ring box, a copy of the divorce petition, and the attorney's contact information.

Adrian picked up the papers, saw my signature already on them, and his expression darkened for a few seconds. Then he tore them in half and threw them in the trash.

He dialed my number.

The system told him the number had been disconnected.

He opened his social media. Next to every message he tried to send, a delivery-failure notification appeared.

Matthew stood in the doorway, speaking in a low voice. "Mrs. Bennett's attorney has sent a formal notice. She's asked to be removed from the joint accounts and has withdrawn her consent to the church ceremony."

"She already has a lawyer."

Adrian let out a short laugh, as if appraising a mediocre design trick.

"All this just to make me bend first. She certainly came prepared."

Matthew asked, "Should I hire a private investigator?"

"No."

Adrian took off his coat, his tone composed.

"She's been with me since she graduated. She has no published work outside the firm. Once she realizes the real world isn't as easy as she imagined, she'll come back."

That afternoon, he went back to Celia's hospital room.

Celia clutched her test results, her shoulders shaking as she cried. "It's all my fault. If it weren't for saving me, Elena wouldn't have left. She must hate me."

Adrian wiped her tears.

"This isn't your fault. I promised Daniel I'd take care of you."

"What if she never comes back?"

"She will."

His answer didn't waver for a second.

"She just wants me to go after her. Once she calms down, I'll bring her home."

Just then, Matthew walked briskly into the room and whispered in his ear, "Intersection cameras caught Mrs. Bennett getting into Mr. Hart's car. The car went to his private medical center."

The warmth vanished from Adrian's face in an instant.

Half an hour later, he pushed open the doors of Hart Heritage Restoration.

Leon was in the conference room reviewing a restoration plan for a nineteenth-century train station. He didn't even look up.

Adrian pulled out the chair across from him, sat down, and adjusted his cufflinks.

"Leon, I'm sorry my wife has put you out these past few days."

Leon kept flipping through his drawings.

Adrian lowered his voice. "Let her come out. She's in poor health and prone to acting impulsively. I'll take her home and arrange for her medical treatment to continue."

Leon finally set down his pen.

He pulled a sheet of paper from his folder and tossed it at Adrian's feet.

It was an emergency-room report, stained with large patches of dried blood.

"Mr. Grant certainly knows how to take care of his wife."

Leon's tone was calm, but his contempt was sharp and undisguised.

"She had most of her liver cut out, her wound split open, and she collapsed alone in a rainstorm from hypothermia. Meanwhile, you were in the transplant recipient's hospital room playing the loyal protector."

Adrian looked down at the name "Elena Bennett" on the paper, and his composure stiffened, inch by inch.

"This is forged."

"You're welcome to verify it with the hospital."

Leon leaned back in his chair.

"But don't bother looking for her.

"The moment she retained a divorce lawyer, she stopped being yours."