Chapter 4

Ethan’s hand was already on the doorknob when I came out of the study with a freshly printed folder. “Sign these before you go.”

“What are they?”

“Just some contracts.”

The last document clearly read UNCONTESTED DIVORCE AND MARITAL SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT across the front page.

Ethan didn’t look at it.

Madeline called again. While reassuring her, he scribbled his name beside all eight tabs.

“I trust you with contracts.” He tossed the pen onto the desk and left.

The moment the door closed, I photographed the signatures and messaged Marcus.

[Everything is signed. File in the morning.]

Then I started packing.

Three hours remained until midnight.

I didn’t sit by the window or keep calling Ethan. I divided my closet into three piles: take, donate, leave.

Five years of my life fit into two suitcases. Most of what remained had been bought for the role of Mrs. Cole—the clothes, the dishes, the carefully curated decorations. I no longer needed any of it, or the name that came with it.

At ten, I disconnected my North Shore email and sent the board the passwords, files, and transition notes they would need without me.

At ten fifteen, an administrative assistant complained on social media about working late. Her photo showed the entire office dark and empty.

Ethan texted me a minute later.

[Just got to the office. I’ll come home as soon as this is handled.]

I didn’t call him out. The Seaport skyline was easy to recognize. The view in the photo he sent came from the top floor of the Liberty Wharf Hotel, not North Shore’s office.

At ten forty, Madeline posted a story visible only to me. Two mugs of hot chocolate sat in front of a hotel-suite fireplace. The sleeve of Ethan’s navy shirt—the one I had chosen that morning—showed at the edge of the frame.

[Some people always come running. You don’t even have to ask.]

I calmly took a screenshot and sent it to Marcus for the file.

At eleven, I removed the travel map from the living-room wall. Metal pins marked the Alps, Iceland’s black-sand beaches, Tuscan vineyards, and California’s Pacific Coast Highway. At every pin, Ethan had promised we would go once the company was stable.

North Shore had grown from three employees to sixty-seven, and its annual revenue had multiplied twentyfold.

The company was stable. Our marriage had never made a single trip.

I rolled up the map and put it in the donation pile.

At eleven thirty, I changed out of the burgundy dress Ethan loved and put on black trousers and a cashmere coat.

For one ridiculous second, I thought Ethan had made it home with a minute to spare. Instead, a deliveryman stood outside holding an ivory weekend case.

“Mrs. Cole? Mr. Cole ordered this for you.”

Ethan’s message arrived as I signed for it.

[Sorry. Maddie’s in a bad place tonight, and I can’t leave her alone at the hotel. Use the card if you want. Don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.]

The clock struck midnight.

I took the final black card from the walnut box and tore it slowly down the middle. Then I placed the divorce agreement Ethan had signed on the entry table and weighed it down with the spare apartment key we had never used.

I sent one final message.

[Don’t bother making it up to me. All ninety-nine cards are gone. So is our marriage.]

Then I walked out.

A line of black sedans waited silently in the rain. A man beside the first car bowed his head.

“Miss Moretti, the Don has been waiting five years for you.”

The encrypted number that had stayed silent throughout my marriage lit up.

[The jet is fueled. Welcome home, Principessa.]

At midnight, Aless Hart disappeared from Boston.

Alessandra Moretti was finally going home.