Chapter 2

The next morning, the sound of someone rummaging through drawers woke me.

When I opened the guest room door, I found Ethan searching through the walk-in closet in our bedroom.

“Where did you put that diamond necklace?”

He didn’t even look up when he saw me.

I’d bought that necklace with money I’d saved for a long time as a gift to myself on my thirtieth birthday the year before.

“Why are you looking for it?”

I stood in the doorway and watched him.

“Chloe has an interview. She doesn’t own a single decent piece of jewelry to make the right impression.”

Ethan answered as though it were obvious.

“You hardly ever wear that necklace anyway. Let her borrow it for a few days.”

As I watched him rifle through my personal belongings with practiced ease, I couldn’t summon even a trace of anger.

“I sold it.”

Ethan’s hand stopped in midair.

He turned and stared at me.

“You sold it? What gave you the right?”

“It belonged to me, so I had every right.”

I turned toward the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water.

Ethan stormed after me.

“Claire, did you do this on purpose? You knew how important Chloe’s interview was!”

“What does her important interview have to do with me?”

I took a sip of water, my voice flat.

“She’s your little project, not my daughter.”

“You—”

My answer left Ethan speechless, his face flushing red.

“You’re impossible! When did you become so cold and selfish?”

He grabbed the car keys from the couch and glared at me.

“Fine. If you won’t lend it to her, I’ll go buy her a new one!”

He snatched up his suit jacket, stormed out, and slammed the door behind him.

The slam echoed through the apartment, then silence returned.

I set down my glass and walked to the window.

Below, Ethan sped out of the underground garage on 74th Street in the Porsche 911 registered in his name—the one whose down payment had come from my annual bonus.

I took out my phone and dialed a number.

“Hello, is this Rachel Goldman’s law office? My name is Claire Bennett.”

“Yes, I’d like to discuss filing for divorce.”

“I plan to file for a no-fault divorce, but I need to document his dissipation of marital assets.”

After hanging up, I returned to the bedroom and started packing my things.

In truth, I didn’t own much.

Over our three years of marriage, most of the things added to our home had been Ethan’s suits and watches—or the so-called school supplies he bought for Chloe.

I found a suitcase and packed several changes of clothes.

At the bottom of a vanity drawer, I found a photo album.

It held pictures of us in college.

Back then, Ethan’s eyes would turn red with panic when I made myself sick staying up all night to finish my senior thesis.

In winter, he would tuck my frozen hands into the pocket of his faded sweatshirt to warm them.

I looked at the boy smiling in those photographs and closed the album.

Then I tossed it into a garbage bag along with a few old books.

Some things weren’t worth saving once they were over.

That afternoon, I went to the office.

The publishing house where I worked occupied a prewar building in the Flatiron District, and the editor in chief, David Whitmore, was one of the people I respected most in the industry.

He looked surprised to see me.

“Claire, didn’t you take time off to spend Valentine’s Day with your husband? Why are you already back at work?”

I smiled and handed him a printed resignation letter.

“David, this is my two weeks’ notice. I’m planning to move home to Vermont and continue my career there.”

David froze.

“Vermont? You’re doing so well here, and you’re due for a promotion to senior editor next month. Why leave so suddenly?”

“It’s personal.”

I didn’t explain further, but my tone left no room for debate.

David studied me for a long moment. He didn’t press; he merely sighed and signed his name.

“I truly hate to lose you, Claire. But if this is what you really want, then go. I’ll make sure HR handles everything.”

“Thank you, David.”

After leaving his office, I began clearing out my desk.

My coworkers crowded around with questions, but I brushed them off by saying I was moving home.

Once I finished, I carried a white banker’s box out of the building.

The mid-February sun was harsh, and I narrowed my eyes against it.

My phone vibrated.

It was a notification for Chloe’s latest Instagram post.

In the photo, a brand-new necklace hung around her neck, its delicate diamonds sparkling beneath the lights.

The caption read, “Thanks to E for my interview gift. I won’t let you down.”

She had tagged a Michelin-starred restaurant in Midtown where reservations were nearly impossible to get.

I liked the post, then closed Instagram.