The penthouse was dark when I got home. I didn't turn on the lights. I walked straight to the kitchen, set my bag on the counter, and stood there in the blue glow from the city outside the windows.
My wrist still burned. The napkin the doctor had given me was damp and stained red where the soup had scalded through. I peeled it away carefully and ran cold water over the skin. The pain sharpened, then dulled to a steady throb.
I dried my hand. Wrapped it in a clean towel. Then I pulled out the leather-bound notebook I kept in my bag and opened it on the counter.
Three years of numbers stared back at me.
Med school loans. Paid in full. Research conference fees. Covered. The Tribeca penthouse down payment. My name only. Furniture, appliances, every piece of art on these walls. Mine. The anonymous $5 million grant to Mount Sinai's surgical research department, funneled through a third-party foundation so Roman would never know. Mine.
I touched the inside of my left wrist where the bracelet used to sit. The skin there was smooth and empty.
I sat at the counter until three in the morning. I didn't cry. I just wrote.
At six a.m., I called my property attorney. He answered on the second ring, groggy but alert when he heard my voice.
"I need eviction paperwork drafted," I said. "The Tribeca property. Occupant is Roman Vasquez. I want him out by noon today."
A pause. "Oaklynn, are you—"
"By noon," I said again. "And I need the locks changed within the hour."
"Understood."
Next, I called my bank. Terminated every joint account. Canceled every credit card Roman had been using. The representative asked if I wanted to leave a forwarding balance. I said no.
Then I called the foundation that administered the research grant.
"I'm withdrawing the funding," I said. "Effective immediately."
The director's voice went tight. "Ms. Grant, that grant is supporting multiple clinical trials. If we pull it now—"
"Immediately," I repeated.
Silence. Then: "I'll draft the paperwork."
I hung up. Opened my messages. Typed one line to Roman.
*Your belongings will be in the lobby by noon. Don't come back.*
I hit send. Set the phone face-down on the counter. And finally, I let myself breathe.
---
Roman came back just after two.
I wasn't there to see it, but the doorman called me. Said Mr. Vasquez had tried his key card three times before realizing it was deactivated. Said he'd demanded access. Said he'd raised his voice.
I told the doorman to let him see the boxes in the lobby. Then to ask him to leave.
Twenty minutes later, my phone buzzed. Twelve missed calls. Four voicemails. I deleted them without listening.
Then a text came through.
*What the hell is this? You can't just kick me out. Half that stuff is mine.*
I stared at the message. Then I typed back.
*Check the lease. Check the purchase records. Check the credit card statements. Nothing in that apartment is yours. It never was.*
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
*You're insane.*
I put the phone in my drawer and didn't look at it again.
---
The call from Mount Sinai came two days later.
I was in my office at Grant Industries headquarters when my assistant buzzed. "Dr. Patricia Holt from Mount Sinai on line two. She says it's urgent."
I almost smiled. Almost.
I let the call go to voicemail.
Holt called again an hour later. Then again that evening. On the fourth call, I picked up.
"Ms. Grant," she said. Her voice was tight. Professional, but barely. "I'm calling regarding the research grant that was recently withdrawn from our surgical department."
"Yes?"
"We weren't given any explanation. The foundation said the donor requested immediate termination. I'm hoping we can discuss—"
"There's nothing to discuss," I said.
A pause. "Ms. Grant, that funding supports critical research. We have trials in progress. Patients enrolled. If you could just—"
"I'm aware of what it supports," I said. "I read every quarterly report for three years."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"The decision is final," I said. "Good luck with your funding search."
I hung up before she could respond.
---
Roman tried to buy coffee the next morning and his card was declined.
He tried the second card. Declined.
The third. Declined.
I know because he called me seventeen times in the span of an hour. I didn't answer. But I listened to one voicemail. Just one.
"Pick up the phone, Oaklynn. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but you can't just cut me off like this. We can talk about this. Just—just call me back. Please."
His voice cracked on the last word.
I deleted the message.
Then I opened my notebook one more time. Ran my finger down the columns of numbers. Three years of my life, itemized and totaled.
I closed the book.
Touched my bare wrist.
And got back to work.
