The apartment was lit when she returned that evening.
Barrett was lounging on the living room sofa, idly flicking through channels on the massive television. He was still in yesterday's clothes-a rumpled designer shirt and dark trousers. He looked disheveled, but it only seemed to enhance his careless, aristocratic charm.
He heard the door open but didn't look up. His voice, when he spoke, was laced with ice.
"You decided to come back."
Elena paused, her hand on the doorknob. She closed the door quietly and slipped off her shoes. "This is my home, too," she said, her voice steady. "Are you going to explain?"
He finally turned his head, his gray eyes pinning her with a look of pure derision. "Explain what? That I need to report to you when I return to my own country?"
She placed her bag on the console table, refusing to be baited. "That's not what I'm talking about, Barrett. We're married. The whole world knew you were back before I did."
A short, humorless laugh escaped him. He pushed himself off the sofa and walked to the wet bar. "Married?" He poured a measured amount of scotch into a crystal tumbler, his movements smooth and almost lazy. Nothing about him was loud. That was what made him worse. Barrett Harding did not need to raise his voice to make a room feel smaller. "Don't be so naive, Elena. You know exactly what this is."
Just then, a small, furry creature darted out from behind the sofa. A tiny, orange-and-white cat with wide, curious eyes. It trotted over to Elena and rubbed against her ankles, letting out a soft "mew."
For a moment, the sight of him pulled Elena back to the night she had found him. It had been raining behind the hospital, the kind of cold, filthy rain that turned alleyways into rivers of black water. She had just finished another brutal shift when she heard a weak cry coming from beside the dumpsters. The kitten had been curled inside a collapsed takeout box, soaked through, trembling so hard she could feel it in her own bones when she picked him up.
She had told herself she would only take him to the apartment for one night. Just one night, until she could find a shelter with space. But the apartment had been too silent when she came home. Too polished. Too empty. The kitten had stumbled across the marble floor on tiny unsteady paws, climbed into the blanket she left on the sofa, and fallen asleep as if he had already chosen her.
So she had bought a litter box, a bag of kitten food, and a ridiculous little bed he refused to use. For the first time in months, something alive waited for her at the door.
Barrett's movement stilled. His gaze dropped to the cat, and the mocking amusement on his face vanished, replaced by a quiet, undisguised look of revulsion.
"What is that?" he asked. His voice was soft, controlled, and stripped of warmth.
Elena bent down and scooped the kitten into her arms, stroking its soft fur. "His name is Nacho. I found him in the alley behind the hospital last week."
She met his cold stare. "I fired Brenda. I needed the company."
Barrett's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You fired Brenda? Who gave you that authority?"
Elena remembered Brenda standing in the kitchen with her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, laughing in a low, gleeful voice while she thought Elena was still at the hospital. Poor Mrs. Harding, she had said. The man comes home to New York and still doesn't come home to her. She keeps that mausoleum spotless like it might make him love her.
There had been more. Little details that no employee should have repeated. The separate bedrooms. The untouched dinners. Barrett's empty side of the closet. Elena had stood outside the kitchen, listening until her hands went cold. Then she had walked in, asked for the apartment keys, and told Brenda her final paycheck would be sent by the end of the day.
"She was taking your money to gossip about your marriage," Elena said, her voice unwavering. "I believe that gives me the authority."
His attention returned to the cat. His expression did not sharpen with anger. It closed, layer by layer, until there was nothing human left in it. "So you replaced her with this shedding animal? Did you forget I hate cats?"
Elena's arms tightened around Nacho. "I remember. But you're only here a few times a year. I didn't think it would be a problem."
That was the wrong thing to say.
Barrett set the tumbler down with delicate precision. The soft click of crystal against marble sounded louder than a shout. Then he crossed the room slowly, unhurriedly, his presence gathering pressure with every step.
He looked down at her, his shadow falling over her and the small creature in her arms.
"It's a problem now," he said. His voice remained even, almost bored. He pointed a finger at the cat. "Get it out of my house."
She stared at him, shocked. "What? He's just a kitten."
"I don't want another living thing in this apartment. Especially not that." His tone was absolute, leaving no room for argument.
The cruelty in his eyes made her stomach clench. The image of the breakfast she had so carefully prepared for him flashed in her mind. The plate, still sitting in the cold refrigerator. A symbol of her wasted effort, her wasted hope.
She turned without a word and walked to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out the plate. The eggs were congealed, the toast limp.
"I made you breakfast this morning," she said, her voice flat. She placed the plate on the counter.
Barrett glanced at it, his lip curling in disgust. "You really think I'd eat that?"
With a flick of his wrist, he pushed the plate aside. It slid across the marble, a piece of egg falling onto the pristine surface, leaving a greasy yellow smear.
That single, dismissive gesture hurt more than any of his words. It was her affection, her care, discarded like trash.
Nacho, sensing the volatile atmosphere, leaped from her arms and scurried under the sofa.
Barrett's cold eyes found hers again. "You have twenty-four hours to get rid of it," he said, his voice quiet enough to be mistaken for indifference. "Or I'll have someone else do it for you."
The threat hung in the air, ugly and clear.
Elena didn't argue. She knew it was useless. He wanted control. He wanted to hurt her. The cat was just a tool.
She looked at him, at the handsome face arranged into a coldness that seemed to come from his very soul. And all the pain, the humiliation, the lonely nights, coalesced into a single, clear thought.
She was done.
"Barrett," she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. "Let's talk about a divorce."
