The phone rang at 3:00 AM.
It was a sound that cut through the silence of the bedroom like a knife.
Julian groaned and fumbled for his phone. He answered it, his voice thick with sleep.
"Hello?"
Then, his tone changed. It softened. It became the voice he used to use for Vivian, years ago.
"Scarlett? What's wrong? Slow down."
Vivian lay still, her back to him. Her eyes were wide open.
"My stomach hurts?" Julian repeated. "Like... bad?"
He sat up. "Okay. Okay, don't cry. I'm coming."
He hung up and threw the covers off.
"Where are you going?" Vivian asked into the dark.
"Scarlett is sick," Julian said, pulling on his trousers. "She thinks it's appendicitis. She's all alone."
"Call an ambulance," Vivian said. "You're not a doctor."
"She's scared of hospitals!" Julian snapped. "God, you're heartless. She's just a kid."
He grabbed a white dress shirt from the closet. He buttoned it wrong, missing a hole.
"I'll be back," he said. He didn't kiss her. He didn't even look at her.
He ran out.
Vivian heard the roar of his sports car fading into the distance.
She got up. She walked to the window. The rain had stopped. The world was quiet.
She waited.
She waited for three hours.
At 6:00 AM, the car returned.
Julian walked in. He looked exhausted. But he didn't look like someone who had spent the night in an ER waiting room. He smelled... fresh. He smelled like generic, cheap hotel soap.
"How was the appendix?" Vivian asked. She was sitting in the armchair, waiting.
"False alarm," Julian muttered, avoiding her eyes. "Just... indigestion. Stress."
He took off his shirt and threw it into the hamper. "I'm going to sleep for an hour."
He collapsed onto the bed and was out in seconds.
Vivian stood up. She walked to the hamper.
She pulled out the white shirt.
She examined it under the bathroom light.
There it was.
On the inside of the collar. Right where it would rub against a neck if someone buried their face there.
A lipstick stain.
Bright, cherry red.
Vivian didn't wear red lipstick. Only Scarlett did.
Indigestion? No.
Vivian dropped the shirt. She didn't feel anger anymore. She felt hollow.
She walked into the study. She opened her laptop.
She went to the airline website.
Destination: Paris.
Ticket Type: One Way.
Date: Next Tuesday.
She entered her credit card details—her secret card, the one linked to an offshore account her grandmother had set up for her.
Click. Confirmed.
She stared at the confirmation screen. One Way.
It was the most beautiful phrase she had ever seen. She printed the confirmation, folded it, and tucked it into her journal. A promise to herself.
Then, she drafted another document.
To the Board of Directors of the Kensington Foundation,
I hereby resign from my position as Honorary Chairwoman...
It was a fluff title. A volunteer position where she did all the work and Julian took all the credit. But it was the only official ties she had to the company.
She typed fast. She didn't use flowery language. She kept it professional. Cold.
At the bottom, she added a postscript.
P.S. Ask Julian about the "appendicitis."
She deleted it. No. She would not be petty. Not on paper.
She printed the letter.
She walked back to the bedroom. Julian was snoring. The man she had vowed to love forever. The man who was currently smelling of another woman's cheap soap.
She looked at him one last time.
"Goodbye, Julian," she whispered.
He didn't wake up. He never would.
