The City Clerk's office smelled like old paper and floor cleaner. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everything in a flat white glow that made the whole room feel like a waiting area for something nobody actually wanted.
I sat in a plastic chair, the kind that squeaked when you shifted. Aden stood by the window, scrolling through his phone. He'd worn a suit — navy, expensive, the one he saved for board meetings. I'd worn jeans and a sweater. It felt right.
A woman behind the counter called our names. We signed more papers. She stamped something. Handed us each a folder.
"That's it," she said. "You're done."
Aden grinned at me across the counter, that same easy smile he'd worn last night at the lounge. "See? Painless."
I didn't answer. I took my folder and walked toward the exit.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket before I reached the door. I pulled it out. A notification from Venmo.
*Aden Russell sent you $50,000.*
*Memo: Go take a vacation. You'll be back.*
I stopped walking. Stared at the screen. Fifty thousand dollars. Like I was a business expense. Like I was something he could pay off and forget.
A sound came out of me — small, sharp, somewhere between a breath and a laugh. Not loud. Just enough to break something open in my chest that had been sealed too long.
I blocked his number.
It took two taps. His name disappeared from my contacts. The screen went blank.
I turned. Harrison stood three steps behind me, hands in his coat pockets, waiting. His jaw was tight, the muscle working just under the skin, but he didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
"Let's go," I said.
He nodded once and held the door.
—
By noon, the divorce was trending in the group chats.
I didn't see them — I'd muted most of those threads years ago — but Celeste called me that afternoon, voice tight with something between fury and disbelief.
"Dominic's telling everyone you'll be back before the end of the month," she said. "He's taking bets. Actual bets, Esme."
I sat in the back of the Maybach, watching the city slide past the tinted windows. "Let him."
"They're treating it like Aden won something. Like he's — free now." Her voice cracked on the last word. "And Berkley's all over his Instagram. He's not even pretending."
"Good," I said. "Let them celebrate."
Celeste was quiet for a moment. Then: "You sound different."
"I am different."
I hung up before she could ask what I meant.
—
Harrison's family residence was on East 74th, tucked behind iron gates and a line of trees that made the street feel quieter than it had any right to be. The townhouse was old money — the kind that didn't announce itself, just existed with the certainty of something that had always been there.
A woman in her fifties met us at the door. Mrs. Callahan, the house manager. She had kind eyes and didn't ask questions.
"Your suite is on the third floor," she said to me. "Private entrance, if you prefer. No one will disturb you unless you ask."
I followed her up a staircase with a banister so polished it reflected the afternoon light. The suite was larger than our — than Aden's — entire bedroom. High ceilings. Tall windows overlooking a private garden. A desk by the window, empty and waiting.
"Mr. Wright asked that you be given complete autonomy," Mrs. Callahan said. She set a key on the desk. "This is yours. The household staff understands you're a guest. If you need anything, there's a phone by the bed."
She left before I could say thank you.
I stood in the center of the room, suitcase still in my hand, and looked around. Everything was clean. Untouched. Mine, if I wanted it.
I set the suitcase down. Walked to the window. The garden below was winter-bare, just dark branches and stone paths, but it was quiet in a way that felt deliberate. Protected.
I sat on the edge of the bed. It didn't creak. The mattress was firm, expensive, the kind you sank into without feeling trapped.
I lay back. Stared at the ceiling.
No one was going to walk in. No one was going to ask me where I'd been or why I looked tired or whether I'd remembered to pick up his dry cleaning. No one needed anything from me.
The silence pressed down like a weight I didn't know how to carry.
I stayed awake for hours.
Somewhere around three in the morning, I got up, walked to the desk, and opened my sketchbook. My hand hovered over the blank page. I hadn't drawn anything real — anything mine — in years. Just margin doodles. Just shapes to fill the quiet.
I picked up a pencil.
Drew a single line.
Then another.
By the time the sky started to lighten outside the window, I had the outline of something small and tenacious. A wildflower. The kind that grew in impossible places.
I set the pencil down and looked at it.
It wasn't much.
But it was mine.
