I don't go back to sleep.
I sit at the kitchen table and watch the sky turn from black to gray. The apartment is quiet. Chase is still in bed. I can hear him breathing through the cracked bedroom door — deep, even, undisturbed.
I open my laptop.
The screen glows blue in the dim light. I pull up the folder I've kept since we bought this place: the deed, the mortgage statements, the property tax records. I open a new spreadsheet and label three columns.
Mine. His. Shared.
I start sorting.
The apartment goes in the third column. The furniture — most of it — goes in the third column. The joint savings account. The wedding gifts we never properly catalogued. I work methodically, without emotion, the way I would work through a project timeline at the office.
My mother's jewelry goes in the first column. The small inheritance she left me. The car I bought with my own paycheck before the marriage.
I stare at the spreadsheet for a long time.
Then I open my email and type a message to Renata Osei, my contact at the Seattle headquarters. Renata and I worked on a cross-office project last year. She's sharp, grounded, the kind of person who answers emails at six in the morning and never asks questions she doesn't need the answers to.
The subject line is simple: *Need a referral.*
I write: *Renata — I need the name of a good divorce attorney in Manhattan. Discreet. No drama. Someone who gets things done. Let me know. — Sienna*
I hit send.
I close the laptop and sit in the silence.
Chase comes out of the bedroom at seven-thirty, showered and dressed in his uniform. He pours himself coffee and glances at me.
"You're up early," he says.
I nod.
He opens the fridge, pulls out the milk, adds it to his mug. He leans against the counter and drinks.
"About last night," he starts.
I look at him.
He shifts his weight. "You overreacted."
I don't answer.
"Lainey didn't mean anything by it," he continues. "She just wanted to understand. She wanted to pay her respects."
"By opening the vault."
"By seeing where she was laid to rest." His tone is patient. Reasonable. The tone he uses when he's explaining something to a rookie officer. "You made it into something it wasn't."
I stand up.
I take my mug to the sink and rinse it. I set it on the drying rack. I turn around and look at him.
"I'm going to work," I say.
He frowns. "Sienna—"
"I'm going to work," I repeat.
I walk past him, grab my coat and bag, and leave.
Renata's email is waiting when I get to the office.
*Victor Salinas. Best in the business. Attached his contact info. Call him. — R*
I call at nine a.m.
The receptionist is polite and efficient. She asks if I'm a referral. I say yes. She asks my availability. I say today.
She pauses. Then she says Mr. Salinas has a cancellation at three p.m. if I can make it.
I say I can.
I work through the morning without breaking focus. I review budgets, respond to emails, join a conference call about a product launch timeline. No one asks if I'm okay. No one notices anything different.
At two-thirty, I leave the office and take the subway to Midtown.
Victor Salinas's office is on the eighteenth floor of a glass tower. The waiting room is understated — leather chairs, low lighting, no magazines. The receptionist offers me water. I decline.
Victor comes out to greet me himself. He's in his fifties, gray at the temples, wearing a suit that fits like it was made for him. He shakes my hand and leads me into his office.
He sits behind his desk. I sit across from him.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
I do.
I tell him about the apartment. The assets. Chase's position with the NYPD. I tell him about the cemetery.
I don't cry. I don't raise my voice. I lay it out the way I would lay out a project scope.
Victor takes notes. When I finish, he sets down his pen and looks at me.
"This is straightforward," he says. "New York is an equitable distribution state. You're entitled to half of all marital assets. The apartment can be liquidated and the proceeds split, or one party can buy out the other. Given what you've told me, I'd recommend liquidation."
"That's what I want," I say.
"No sentimentality," he says. It's not a question.
"None."
He nods. "I can have the papers ready within the week."
"Good."
He leans back in his chair. "Mrs. Hamilton—"
"Morales," I correct. "I kept my name."
"Ms. Morales," he says. "I've been doing this a long time. I can tell when someone's sure. You're sure."
"I am."
"Then we'll get started."
I shake his hand and leave.
That night, I submit a formal transfer request to my company's HR department. I've been tracking the senior project manager position in Seattle for months — watching the job postings, noting the salary range, building a mental case for why I'd be the right fit.
I frame the request as a career advancement opportunity. I attach my performance reviews, my project portfolio, a brief cover letter outlining my interest.
I hit submit at eleven p.m.
Chase is asleep in the bedroom. I'm at the kitchen table again, laptop open, the blue glow illuminating my face.
I close the computer.
I don't feel sad. I don't feel angry.
I feel clear.
HR approves the transfer in seventy-two hours.
