Chapter 2

I woke up feverish, angry, and clear-headed, and that clarity was worth more than sleep. I made coffee, swallowed two cold pills, and started locking doors Evan did not even know existed.

I removed my cards from every shared account, downloaded the lease, moved my savings somewhere he could not touch, and sent my father's attorney a clean list of everything I wanted reviewed. At the bottom, I added one line: do not touch him yet.

While clearing the living room, I found the little black box Evan kept under the media console. Inside were receipts: flights to London, hotel bars in Mayfair, a boutique in Knightsbridge, and a jeweler's card with Mara's initials on the back. The last flight had landed three days before she returned to New York.

I sat back on my heels and laughed once. All those missed anniversaries, all those calls he ignored because he was "buried in work." Evan had time. He just spent it on her.

After midnight, the bedroom door opened. Evan came in smelling of cold air, expensive perfume, and the kind of guilt he expected me to mop up for him. He slid into bed and pressed himself against my back, murmuring my name like it counted as an apology.

I caught his wrist before his hand reached my waist. "I have a fever."

He went still, then sighed like I had ruined his night. "Seriously? Tonight?"

Once, that would have gutted me. This time, I released his wrist and moved to the edge of the mattress. "Go to sleep, Evan."

A minute later, his phone lit up under the blanket. I heard messages buzz and the little breath of a laugh he tried to hide. I closed my eyes and counted the hours. Two days left.

In the morning, I found him in the kitchen, which should have told me something was off. Evan did not cook. Now he stood at the stove in gray sweatpants, stirring chicken broth like he was auditioning for sainthood.

"Mara caught a chill last night. I'm cooking for her before work."

"Of course you are."

His shoulders relaxed because he mistook calm for forgiveness. "I made enough for you too."

"Lucky me." I poured coffee instead.

He frowned. "Don't be like that. I said I was sorry about last night. And I was thinking maybe we should finally take engagement photos after Christmas. My mother has been asking."

His mother had never asked. After six years, she still called me "the girl Evan lives with."

"After Christmas?"

"Yeah. New year, new start. We can stop fighting."

We were not fighting. Fighting required two people still trying to win the same thing.

I took my coffee to the table. "Are you going home for Christmas Eve?"

He looked down at the soup container. "About that. It's probably not a good year for you to come. My parents are stressed, so just buy the gifts like usual and I'll take them. We'll do a proper visit later."

"Is Mara going?"

His head snapped up. "Her family lives near mine."

"That wasn't my question."

"Don't make this weird. She's alone for the holidays."

"And I'm what?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The answer sat between us as plainly as a signature: available.

I smiled into my coffee. "Sure. I'll buy the gifts."

He studied me, uneasy now. He had expected tears, a fight, the old routine where he made me feel unreasonable and I apologized for bleeding on his floor. Instead, I made a gift list and let him mistake silence for surrender.

After he left, I packed the gifts in glossy black boxes and photographed every receipt. Then I packed myself. I took the pearl earrings, my passport, my grandmother's rosary, and the documents hidden inside my suitcase. I left the rest.

At noon, I called Gia, my father's lawyer.

"Miss Moretti," she said. "Your father told me to expect you."

I emailed her the CHRISTMAS folder and Evan's company documents. "Saint Jude Capital's stake is under our umbrella. I want a clean exit after I leave. No threats, no scenes. Just contracts, audits, and whatever consequences the paperwork earns him."

Gia went quiet for a beat. "Does Mr. Cole know who you are?"

"No."

"Does he know Saint Jude was you?"

"No."

"That is going to be one hell of a morning."

"For him," I said, closing my suitcase. "Not for me."

That evening, Evan came home and stopped in the doorway. My books were gone from the shelves, my coat was gone from the hook, and the vase I had bought in Chelsea sat empty because I had thrown out the dead flowers he never noticed.

"Did you redecorate?" he asked.

"I cleaned."

"Feels bare."

"It was cluttered."

He nodded slowly, then pulled out his phone. A smile tugged at his mouth before he remembered to hide it. Mara, probably. I went to the bedroom, shut the door, and let the countdown roll into its final day.