Chapter 4 - The Key to Nowhere

Amelia’s POV

I stood on the sidewalk outside a building that looked like it was held together by paint and prayers.

The studio apartment key felt foreign in my palm—cold metal, sharp edges, belonging to a life I didn't recognize as mine. Rain from earlier still puddled in the cracked pavement, reflecting neon signs from the bodega next door.

This was it. My new beginning. I couldn't make myself go inside.

A car horn blared behind me. I jumped, clutching my suitcase handle tighter. People rushed past—couples laughing, businessmen on phones, teenagers with headphones—all of them belonging to the city in a way I suddenly didn't.

Three years in Daniel's penthouse had made me forget what normal looked like.

My phone buzzed as Harper's name flashed across the screen.

"Don't even think about going back to that bastard," Harper said before I could speak. "I'm three blocks away with enough takeout to feed a small army and wine that's definitely too expensive for my paycheck. Buzz me up."

"I'm not inside yet," I admitted, my voice small.

"Oh, honey." Harper's tone shifted from fierce to gentle in a heartbeat. "I'm coming. Don't move."

The call ended. I stared at my phone, then at the building entrance, then at my suitcase containing everything I owned. How had I ended up here?

The answer came in flashes—my father's sudden death at nineteen, the bankruptcy that followed, my mother's depression, four years of survival mode before Daniel appeared like a miracle. I'd been drowning, and he'd been a life raft. Except life rafts weren't supposed to push you back into the water once you caught your breath.

A taxi screeched to a stop at the curb. Harper tumbled out, arms loaded with bags, her pixie-cut hair slightly disheveled, camera equipment banging against her hip.

"Okay, new rule," Harper announced, marching straight to me. "We don't stand outside crying. We go inside, eat our feelings, and plot revenge. Or drink. Probably both."

"I wasn't crying." But my cheeks were wet, and we both knew it.

Harper's expression softened. She set down her bags and pulled me into a fierce hug that smelled familiar.

"He's an idiot," Harper whispered into my hair. "A stupid, emotionally stunted idiot who doesn't deserve you."

"Then why does it hurt this much?" My voice broke.

"Because you loved him. Really, genuinely loved him. And that's not a weakness, Mia. That's never a weakness."

Harper pulled back, grabbing the suitcase with one hand and my wrist with the other. "Come on. Let's see this place. Maybe it's got character. The character is code for 'crime scene chic,' but we work with what we've got."

The apartment was worse than I remembered.

One room that somehow functioned as bedroom, living room, and kitchen. A bathroom the size of a closet. A window that looked directly into another window ten feet away. The walls were beige in the way that suggested they'd been white once, decades ago.

"Okay," Harper said brightly, setting bags on the tiny counter. "It's definitely... cozy. Very... minimalist. Like, extremely minimalist. We could go more minimalist, but then we'd be outside."

Despite everything, I almost smiled.

Harper started unpacking containers—Thai food, Chinese food, Italian food, like she couldn't decide which cuisine would fix a broken heart so she'd brought them all. Wine bottles followed, proper glasses that seemed absurdly fancy in this space.

"Sit," Harper commanded, pointing to the futon that I suspected doubled as the bed. "Eat. Talk. Or don't talk. But definitely eat."

I sat as the futon groaned ominously.

Harper handed me a glass of wine—red, full-bodied, probably cost more than a week's groceries. "To new beginnings and the assholes we left behind."

I clinked glasses mechanically but didn't drink.

"He said I was holding him back," I said quietly, staring at the wine. "That the marriage was a mistake. That he wasn't sure he ever loved me."

"And you believed him?"

"I signed the papers, didn't I?"

Harper's jaw tightened. "That doesn't mean you believed him. That means you loved him enough to let him go. There's a difference."

I finally looked up. "Is there?"

We sat in silence, eating lukewarm pad thai straight from containers because the apartment didn't have proper plates yet. The absurdity wasn't lost on either of us—three years ago, I'd been planning menus with private chefs. Now I was eating takeout on a futon held together by hope.

"What happens now?" Harper asked eventually.

"I don't know." I set down my container, appetite gone. "Find a job, I guess. Figure out how to be me again. I'm not even sure who that is anymore."

"It's the woman who used to sneak into the campus library after hours to sketch in the architecture section. Who made me laugh until I cried over terrible reality TV. Who had opinions and dreams and a whole life before Daniel Sterling decided he was too important for actual human connection."

My throat tightened. "That woman feels like someone else."

"Then we find her again." Harper reached over, squeezing my hand. "One day at a time. Starting with surviving tonight."

The hours blurred together—wine, food, Harper's running commentary on every terrible dating app profile she'd encountered. At some point, we attempted to assemble the futon into a bed, which took forty minutes and two near-injuries.

"This was definitely easier when we were in college," Harper muttered, wrestling with a stubborn frame joint.

"Everything was easier then."

By midnight, Harper had passed out on the newly assembled bed, snoring softly. I sat by the window, watching the city that suddenly felt too big and too small at the same time.

My phone lay on the windowsill. I told myself I wasn't waiting for it to light up with his name. I told myself I didn't care if he was awake, wondering if I'd made it somewhere safe. I told myself a lot of lies that night.

At 3 AM, the phone finally buzzed. My heart leaped, pathetic and desperate. I grabbed it, pulse racing "Financial documents attached. Review and confirm receipt. - Sterling Legal"

Not him. His lawyer.

The documents detailed the settlement—generous, calculated but cold. Every asset split, every belonging accounted for, every thread of our marriage reduced to line items and signatures.

I scrolled through pages that quantified three years of love in dollar signs and property divisions.

At the bottom, a note: "Client requests confirmation of the new address for future correspondence." Client. Not my husband. Not Daniel. Not even his name.

I set the phone down, hands trembling. I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass, watching my breath fog the surface.

Somewhere across the city, in a penthouse that used to be home, Daniel was probably already asleep. Or working. Or whatever heartless people did after they destroyed someone who'd loved them.

The city lights blurred through my tears, and I—Amelia Hart, who'd lost my father, my dreams, and now my marriage—finally let myself break in a way I'd been too afraid to before.