The rain hadn't stopped for three days. I sat in another Portland hotel room—not the one Marcus would know about—staring at my laptop screen. The email had arrived an hour ago, its subject line cryptic: "When one door closes—E.V."
Dr. Eleanor Vance. My graduate school mentor. The brilliant mind who'd seen potential in me long before Sterling Tech existed. I hadn't spoken to her in nearly four years, not since I'd chosen Marcus's company over her research team.
I opened the message with trembling fingers.
"Rebecca, I've been following your work from afar. The Neuralink Algorithm was clearly your creation, despite whose name appears on the patent. The Boston Institute has an immediate opening that would benefit from your particular talents. Sometimes, the greatest freedom comes from letting go of what others believe about us. Call me if you're interested in discussing a clean slate."
A phone number followed, along with coordinates to a café. Tomorrow. 2 PM.
A clean slate.
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything I'd lost. My marriage—a fiction. My career—stolen. My family home—transferred to the woman who'd replaced me. What did I have left to lose?
My phone buzzed with a news alert. I almost ignored it until I saw the headline: "Sterling Tech CEO Announces Memorial Fund in Honor of Collaborator."
The article featured Marcus, his face a perfect mask of solemn grief, announcing a scholarship in my name. Beside him stood Ashley, her hand possessively on his arm, wearing my mother's pearls.
"Rebecca Thompson's contributions to our company were invaluable," the quote read. "Her legacy will continue through this fund."
My legacy. As if I were already dead.
The idea crystallized in that moment, sharp and clear as diamond.
* * *
The café was tucked away on a side street, its windows fogged with steam from the espresso machine. Dr. Eleanor Vance hadn't changed much—still the same steel-gray bob, piercing eyes behind tortoiseshell frames, and no-nonsense posture.
"You look terrible," she said by way of greeting, pushing a cup toward me.
I almost laughed. "Thank you for your honesty."
"It's why you're here, isn't it? Honesty?" She studied me over the rim of her mug. "I watched that press conference yesterday. Quite the performance from your husband."
"He's not my husband." The words came out sharper than I intended. "We were never legally married."
Eleanor's eyebrow arched, but she didn't seem surprised. "I suspected something was off when you disappeared into his world so completely. The Rebecca I knew would never have abandoned her research to become someone's corporate accessory."
"I thought I was building something meaningful." My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears.
"And now?"
I met her gaze. "Now I want to disappear."
She nodded once, decisively. "Good. Because Rebecca Thompson needs to die."
The café noise faded to a distant hum as she outlined the plan. The Boston Institute position was real. So was the apartment, the new credentials, the chance to continue my research under my own terms. What wasn't mentioned in the email was the rest—the identity paperwork, the contacts who could create a convincing accident report, the death certificate that would sever me from my past.
"Why would you do this for me?" I finally asked.
"Because brilliant minds are rare, and broken spirits can be mended." She slid a folder across the table. "But mostly because I've seen what men like Marcus Sterling do to women who try to leave them conventionally."
I didn't ask how she knew. Some scars are universal.
* * *
Three nights later, I stood on the shoulder of a deserted coastal road, watching rain streak down the windows of the rental car I'd deliberately driven into a ditch. My hands shook as I placed my wallet—ID clearly visible—on the driver's seat, then carefully extracted the airbag and scattered just enough blood—not mine—to make the scene convincing.
Eleanor's contact had arranged everything else: the anonymous call that would bring police to the scene, the coast guard report of a body swept out to sea, the medical examiner who would sign the death certificate without an actual body.
In the distance, headlights approached—my ride to the private airfield where a plane waited to take me to Boston. To my new life.
I checked my burner phone one last time. The local news website had already posted the bulletin: "Fatal Accident Claims Life of Former Sterling Tech Executive."
As I slipped into the waiting car, I felt a strange sense of peace wash over me. Rebecca Thompson was dead.
And I was finally free.
Or so I thought.
