The morning news was playing on the flat-screen TV in Isolde's home office. The volume was low, a constant murmur beneath the sound of packing tape ripping off the roll.
Isolde was wrapping a Ming Dynasty vase in layers of bubble wrap. Her movements were precise, efficient. She was a professional restorer; she knew how to handle fragile things. She wished her own heart had been as easy to protect.
On the screen, Arland was standing at a podium. Flashes from cameras erupted like lightning storms around him.
"Mr. Rhodes! Mr. Rhodes! Is it true you abandoned your fiancée at City Hall?" a reporter shouted.
Arland leaned into the microphone. He looked authoritative, his suit crisp, his face unreadable. "The Rhodes family requests privacy at this time. Miss Blackburn is currently under our protection due to health concerns. Any harassment by the media will be met with immediate legal action."
He paused, scanning the crowd. "My priority is the well-being of those under my care."
He didn't mention Isolde's name. Not once. He didn't defend her honor. He didn't clarify that she wasn't the one who had walked away. He simply erased her from the narrative to shield Emilie.
Isolde picked up the remote and turned off the TV. The screen went black, swallowing his face.
"He protects what he values," she whispered to the empty room.
She placed the vase into a reinforced wooden crate.
The service elevator dinged. Three men in blue coveralls stepped out. They were quiet, professional movers she had hired privately.
"Take only the items marked with blue tape," Isolde instructed. "Use the service exit. Do not go through the lobby."
The men nodded and began to work.
Isolde watched as they dismantled her life. The antique armoire she had restored by hand. The collection of first-edition poetry books. The painting she had bought with her first paycheck.
As each item left, the penthouse felt larger, colder. But Isolde had a plan. For every item she removed, she replaced it with something generic from the storage closet.
She replaced the Ming vase with a cheap glass bowl. She replaced the first editions with coffee table books about architecture. She replaced the hand-woven Persian rug with a beige synthetic one.
But she didn't just remove the items. She meticulously opened her safe and extracted every single certificate of authenticity for the pieces she had restored for the Rhodes Collection. Without these certificates bearing her signature, Arland's multi-million dollar antique exhibition next week would be completely worthless. She packed the documents into her briefcase, a cold smile touching her lips.
Within three hours, the apartment looked fully furnished, but it was soulless. It looked like a hotel room. It looked like a place where nobody lived.
Her phone rang. It was Jc Brennan.
"Isolde," his voice was tight. "The equity transfer papers are ready. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"I'll be there this afternoon," Isolde said. "Have the notary ready."
Arland came home early that evening, around 6:00 PM.
Isolde was sitting on the beige sofa, a book open in her lap. She wasn't reading. She was listening to the silence of the apartment, waiting.
The door opened. Arland walked in, loosening his tie. He looked less stressed than the night before, perhaps because he felt he had handled the media.
He stopped in the middle of the living room and frowned. He looked around, turning in a slow circle.
"It feels... different in here," he said.
Isolde's heart skipped a beat. She kept her eyes on the page. "Different how?"
"I don't know." Arland rubbed the back of his neck. His mind was still a whirlwind of hospital reports and Emilie's anxious calls; he scanned the room but didn't truly see it. "Quieter? Did you change the lighting?"
He didn't notice the missing antiques. He didn't notice that the soul of the room was gone. He only sensed a vague emptiness, a hollow echo that he couldn't place.
"I sent the rugs for cleaning," Isolde lied smoothly, inwardly mocking his sheer blindness. She turned a page. "And I rearranged some decor. "
Arland accepted the excuse immediately. He walked over and sat next to her, the sofa dipping under his weight. He tried to take her hand.
"About the press conference..." he started. "I had to stop the rumors. I couldn't let them attack Emilie while she's sick."
Isolde withdrew her hand under the pretense of turning another page. "You did what you had to do."
Arland sighed. He sounded frustrated by her distance, but relieved she wasn't screaming. He hated conflict. He hated when women were "hysterical."
"Your birthday is coming up," he said, trying to pivot to safer ground. "We'll do something big. A party. Just us and a few friends."
Isolde smiled. It was a cold, sharp curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "Sure. That sounds nice."
He didn't remember that she hated parties. He didn't remember that she preferred quiet dinners.
"I'm going to take a shower," Arland said, standing up. "It's been a long day."
He left his phone on the coffee table.
Isolde watched him walk up the stairs. As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, the phone on the table lit up.
A text message.
Dr. Monroe says I need bed rest for at least a week. It's so lonely here. Can you come read to me? - E
Isolde stared at the screen until it went dark. She didn't touch it. She didn't need to see any more.
