Chapter 3

The next three days, I barely stopped moving.

The Paris contract was signed. Maison Lévrier expedited my work visa. I redistributed a year's worth of studio projects and handed my long-term clients over to my business partner, Claire.

Each item I completed, I crossed off the list.

Paris wasn't a fallback I'd scraped together in a panic.

Three years ago, when my collection first made the shortlist for the Geneva International Jewelry Exhibition, Maison Lévrier had asked me to stay. Sebastian's company was mid-funding round. I compressed a six-month residency into three weeks and flew home to help him through the hardest stretch.

Afterward, he liked to say that between us, it didn't matter which one traveled farther.

I actually believed him.

It took me until now to understand: when you spend too long standing still for someone else, you forget how far you were capable of going.

So Paris wasn't an escape from Sebastian.

It was me walking back onto a road I had once, willingly, stepped off.

Strange thing. Once seven years actually began to end, it ended more cleanly than I'd imagined.

On the fourth evening, Sebastian showed up at my studio.

He was holding a box from Bouchon Bakery—my favorite chestnut cake.

"For you."

I didn't take it.

He set it on the edge of the desk, sighing a little.

"Enough is enough. I made Delilah return the apartment key."

I looked up. "Why?"

"Because you were upset."

He frowned, as if the question puzzled him.

"It's just a studio. She doesn't need to use it."

Even now, he was still convinced this was about a room and a ring.

I didn't bother to explain.

He drew the platinum band out of his inside jacket pocket. This time he didn't use the box. He just took my hand.

"Ivy. I admit the joke at the party went too far. Let me put the ring on you myself. All right?"

I withdrew my hand. The motion was light, but final.

"Sebastian. I said I don't want it anymore."

His hand hung in the air.

For the first time, real displeasure surfaced in his face.

"What exactly do you want from me?"

"You want me to blow up at Delilah over a ring? Or should I go in tomorrow, rescind a project bonus in front of the whole firm, and tell everyone my fiancée was jealous?"

I looked at him quietly.

He seemed to take my silence for an answer, and his voice went colder.

"Ivy, you didn't used to be like this. You used to be able to tell the difference between work and personal life. You didn't fixate on Delilah."

I finally smiled.

"You're right."

He blinked. "What?"

"I didn't used to be like this."

I used to be afraid of not looking dignified. Afraid of losing seven years to a handful of small things. Afraid of being called petty.

So I forced myself, again and again, to understand.

But understanding was never a duty.

I bent my head back to the sketch on my desk.

"I have a meeting."

The dismissal was unmistakable. Sebastian's expression darkened.

Just then his phone rang. Delilah's name lit up the screen. He picked up almost reflexively.

Whatever she said made his brow smooth instantly.

"You forgot the keycard again? Stay where you are, I'll come."

He hung up and turned back to me.

"Dinner at home tonight. There's something I want to talk to you about."

I made a noncommittal sound.

He walked to the door, then looked back.

"I'll leave the ring here. Put it on yourself when you've come to your senses."

The door closed.

I looked at the platinum band on my desk, picked it up, and slid it into a document sleeve along with the plastic ring from the engagement party.

What was mine, I would not surrender an inch of.

What wasn't mine, I wanted none of.

That evening, I went to see my attorney.

I had covered half the down payment on the apartment. I had paid the parking spot in full. I had fronted the engagement venue deposit.

I had never wanted to tally any of it before.

Now I found that numbers were more honest than feelings.

After the attorney went through the final document, he couldn't help but look up at me.

"You're sure?"

I signed my name.

"Yes."

"Seven years."

I capped the pen.

"Which is exactly why I can't waste an eighth."