Eda Roman POV
The scissors were heavy with significance. They were from the master bathroom, where I’d often cleaned alone to escape the cage.
I stood in the closet, larger than my father's entire apartment, lined with gowns and heels I’d worn to please Axel’s investors. I caught my reflection: hair falling to my middle back, dark honey, Axel’s "crowning glory"—a possession he’d wrap around his fist during sex.
I gathered it all in my left hand. Snip.
The sound was crisp. A severing. I cut until my hair was jagged, uneven, brushing just below my jawline. My neck felt naked.
I left the pile of hair on Axel’s pillow—a shroud, a warning.
I packed only the drafting case: his compasses, mechanical pencils, scale ruler. They smelled like graphite and cedar. They smelled like my father.
Then I went into Axel's office.
The urn was small, a simple wooden box sanded smooth. My father had hated veneer. He always said, Show the grain. Let them see what you're really made of.
I placed the urn dead center on Axel's $60,000 mahogany desk. I took a photo as dawn broke over Manhattan, casting a cold blue light over the tomb of my marriage.
I walked out of the Foley penthouse barefoot, carrying my heels and my father’s case. The doorman hailed me a cab.
"Where to, miss?""The airport. JFK."
In the back of the cab, I opened social media. There was Keri Lane's post: a glamorous photo of her and Axel at a black-tie gala, his hand on her back. Caption: "Celebrating another monumental win with the visionary, Axel Foley! #PowerCouple."
They were celebrating.
My thumbs moved with surgical precision.
EdaFoley_Official: Keri, you look radiant. It's inspiring how you celebrate such 'wins' while I bury my father, who died because you withheld the $50,000 for his treatment. Perhaps you'll find it equally efficient to process these divorce papers. P.S. Axel, check your desk for a special delivery. [Image Attached]
I hit Post.
I blocked Axel, Keri, Foley Inc., Axel’s mother—everyone except Julian and Axel’s personal burner phone.
The silence that followed was the loudest, most beautiful sound I had ever heard. It was the sound of a foundation cracking.
I checked into a motel near a regional airport in Pennsylvania under the name "Anna Keaton." It was small, plain, and real.
Thirty-seven missed calls from Axel. I ignored them and called Julian.
"They're panicking," Julian said. "Axel's legal team is trying to issue takedown notices, but you didn't say anything defamatory. The internet has filled in the blanks. #ClearHisDesk is trending."
"He needs to see it," I said. "I need him alone."
I texted Axel’s burner: St. Jude's Hospital. Chapel of Rest. One hour. Come alone. If I see Keri or a lawyer, the server logs and bank statements go to the New York Times and the SEC.
I put the phone down and waited.
