The first piece arrived on a Tuesday.
Petra called me from the loading dock. "Mikayla, there's a... situation."
I went downstairs. A delivery truck was parked outside the studio. Two men were unloading something wrapped in quilted blankets.
"What is it?" I asked.
Petra handed me an envelope. Cream paper. My name in handwriting I'd know blind.
I opened it.
*Remember the antique shop in Brooklyn? You said this chair belonged in a library where people fell in love. I bought it that day. Kept it in storage. Waiting.*
The men unwrapped the blankets. A leather wingback chair. Deep green. Brass studs. The exact one I'd pointed at through a window seven years ago.
"Refuse it," I said.
Petra nodded. "Already did. They won't take it back without your signature."
I looked at the chair. It was beautiful. Perfect. A museum piece.
I walked over. Ran my hand along the leather.
Then I took out my phone and called the studio's junk removal service.
"I need a pickup," I said. "Today. One chair. Donate it. I don't care where."
The men loaded it back onto their truck. Cassius's truck left empty.
Petra watched me. "How many more of these are coming?"
"I don't know."
But I did know. I knew exactly.
---
Three days later: a first edition design book. Rare. Out of print. The one I'd mentioned once at a college exhibit.
Five days after that: a vintage drafting table. The kind I'd sketched on in our apartment.
Every delivery came with a note. Every note referenced something specific. Something only he would remember.
*You used to say good design was about memory made tangible.*
*This is me remembering.*
Petra refused them all. Logged every attempt. Built a file.
I said nothing. Drew my lines. Met my clients. Packed Gracie's lunches.
Sullivan asked once. "How many?"
"Seven this week."
He nodded. Went back to his papers.
But I saw it. The way his jaw tightened. The way his hand paused on the page.
---
The flowers came on a Thursday.
Gracie's school called at noon. The principal. Her voice careful.
"Ms. Roberts, there's been a delivery. To your daughter. We're not sure of the protocol—"
I was in my car before she finished.
The bouquet sat on the principal's desk. White roses. Gracie's favorite. A card tucked in the ribbon.
I opened it.
*From a friend of your mother's.*
My hand shook. Just once. I closed my fist.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"In class. She doesn't know."
"Good. Keep it that way."
I took the flowers. Walked them to the parking lot. Threw them in the dumpster behind the building.
Then I sat in my car and gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
He sent flowers to my daughter.
He knows where she goes to school.
He knows her name.
I drove home. Walked inside. Set my bag down.
Sullivan was at his desk. He looked up.
"Mikayla?"
I walked past him. Up the stairs. Into the bathroom.
I sat on the floor. Back against the tub. Knees pulled up.
I didn't cry. Couldn't.
I just sat there and tried to breathe.
Footsteps on the stairs. The door opened.
Sullivan stood there. Looked at me. Looked at the floor.
Then he sat down beside me.
He didn't ask. Didn't touch me. Just sat.
We stayed there until the window turned gray. Until the light outside went soft and then dark.
Finally, I spoke. "He sent flowers to Gracie's school."
Sullivan's hand found mine. Held it.
"Okay," he said quietly.
That was all.
We sat on the bathroom floor until the sky started to lighten. Until the birds began. Until Gracie's alarm went off down the hall.
Then Sullivan stood. Offered me his hand.
I took it.
---
That morning, Sullivan made calls I didn't hear.
By afternoon, there were men I didn't recognize near Gracie's school. Dressed normal. Watching.
By evening, my studio had new cameras. New locks.
Sullivan said nothing about it. Just came home. Made dinner. Helped Gracie with her homework.
I found the GPS chip by accident. Checking Gracie's backpack for a permission slip.
A tiny thing. Sewn into the lining. Professional.
I stared at it.
Then I zipped the backpack closed.
Sullivan was in the kitchen. I walked in. He looked up.
"I found it," I said.
He met my eyes. Didn't pretend. "Good."
"You didn't tell me."
"No."
I waited. He said nothing else.
"Sullivan—"
"I won't apologize for keeping her safe," he said quietly. "Or you."
I looked at him. This man who made tea and graded papers and sat on bathroom floors.
This man who had just put invisible walls around our entire life without asking.
"Okay," I said finally.
He nodded once.
We didn't talk about it again.
---
In New York, Chaya Harrison woke at three in the morning.
Cassius was asleep beside her. Phone on the nightstand. Face down.
She'd stopped trying to touch him months ago. Stopped trying to ask where he went. Who he called.
She already knew.
She picked up his phone. Knew the password. His mother's birthday. He'd never changed it.
The screen lit up.
And there she was.
Mikayla Roberts. Twenty-two years old. Laughing. Hair in the wind. The photo Chaya had seen a thousand times in Cassius's eyes when he looked past her at nothing.
Seven years.
Seven years of being the wife he never wanted. The name he never chose. The money he married.
She set the phone down. Carefully. Exactly where it had been.
Then she got out of bed. Walked to her office. Opened her laptop.
By morning, she had a file. Addresses. Schools. Studio location. Daily routines.
By noon, she had a plan.
She did not cry. Did not scream.
She just smiled. Cold and thin and final.
If he wanted Mikayla Roberts so badly, Chaya would make sure he understood exactly what that wanting cost.
