Chapter 3

I no longer understood why I was still sitting there. I picked up my bag and stood.

Cassia immediately looked worried. "Is Mrs. DeLuca upset? Did I make you two fight again?"

Roman lowered his voice, but the anger still cut through. "Elena, do you have to ruin every room you walk into?"

I didn’t turn around. When I reached the front of the restaurant, Roman followed me with my coat in his hand. For one breath, I almost believed he had finally chosen to leave with me.

Then Cassia called from inside. "Ro, I think I can't breathe."

Roman stopped. He looked at me. He looked back at Cassia, whose face had turned pale. Then he shoved the coat into my arms. "I'll have the driver take you home. Cassia gets panic attacks. She needs me more right now."

I looked down at the coat and laughed once under my breath. When danger reached for me, he would come after me by instinct. When Cassia asked for him, he would turn away.

He didn’t feel nothing for me. I just came after her every single time.

Back at the apartment, I sent my resignation to the museum first.

I worked as a restoration consultant at the Art Institute of Chicago. The job was stable, respectable, and comfortable. Three years ago, when we married, Roman told me the DeLuca family didn’t need my paycheck. He said I should stop exhausting myself. He said when we had children, I could have an easier schedule.

I believed him. Now I no longer wanted to keep myself small for a man who never put me first.

After I sent the resignation, I opened another email that had been waiting in my inbox.

The Marlowe Institute in Geneva was one of the most discreet private art provenance agencies in Europe. It traced paintings and artifacts lost through wars, smuggling routes, and organized crime deals.

They had contacted me six months ago and invited me to join a long-term project.

At the time, I hesitated because I still believed Roman and I might have a child. I still believed we had a home.

Now there wasn’thing to hesitate over. I replied.

[I accept the offer. I can start according to the original schedule.]

The email asked me to confirm that I understood the risks. The projects crossed private collectors, old money, and people who preferred history to stay buried. The institute could protect its researchers, but it could not promise comfort.

I read that clause twice.

For three years, I had lived inside Roman's protection and still felt unsafe in the rooms he owned. The word risk no longer scared me as much as the word comfort. Comfort had made me wait. Comfort had made me explain away every slight until I could barely recognize my own voice.

I clicked send before fear could dress itself up as common sense.

Then I began packing the study. Roman did most of his work from DeLuca Group's offices, so the study had always been mine. My restoration notes, old exhibition catalogs, pigment samples, and reference books filled every shelf.

I was halfway through the room when Roman came home.

He saw the boxes, and the softness on his face vanished.

"When did you become like this?" He stood in the doorway with disappointment in his voice. "One Thanksgiving, Elena. You fought from morning to night. Will you only be happy when everyone else is miserable?"

It was almost funny. Even then, he thought the problem was my temper.

I didn’t want to explain anymore. "Roman, I want a divorce."

His phone rang before the last word had settled.

It wasn’t his default ringtone. It was an old jazz recording of "Fly Me to the Moon."

Roman had changed phones three times. Each time, he set that song as one ringtone before he did anything else.

He used to say it was a habit from college. Later, I learned it belonged only to Cassia.

Roman looked at the screen and answered without hesitation. Whatever Cassia said on the other end made him turn toward the door. "Don't be scared. I'm on my way."

The door slammed behind him.

Maybe he hadn’t heard me ask for a divorce. Maybe he had heard and decided Cassia's tears mattered more.

I stood in the empty living room, and the last fog inside me cleared.

The ringtone that belonged to Cassia. The default address he refused to delete. The gifts that were supposed to be mine and kept landing in her hands.

Roman had never hidden the truth well. I had only refused to read it.

I finished packing the study and moved into the bedroom.

My clothes didn’t fill much space. For three years, many small things I wanted had ended up at Cassia's apartment because Roman always said, "I'll order it."

I looked at the two cheap metal lamps on our nightstands.

After our wedding, I had spent weeks choosing a pair of handmade ceramic lamps for the bedroom. Roman offered to buy them. They went to Cassia.

When I asked him to get them back, he refused.

I bought the cheapest pair I could find at a supermarket because I was angry. I thought he would see them every night, feel guilty, and order the lamps I actually liked.

Three years passed. That ceramic studio released several new collections. Roman never noticed.

I unplugged both metal lamps and threw them into a trash bag.

The next afternoon, Roman called. "The DeLuca Group has a celebration dinner at the Bellwether tonight. The docks contract finally closed, and everyone is pushing me to host."

I was ready to refuse.

Then he said, "My parents will be there. Don't be late."

I fell silent for a moment and swallowed the refusal. Since I had decided to divorce him, I should tell the elder DeLucas in person.

I called movers and sent all my boxes to my parents' house.

Before I left the apartment, I looked back at the home I had lived in for three years.

It had a gorgeous lake view, expensive furniture, and DeLuca men posted downstairs.

It had never been mine.