Fiona pressed her thumb to the biometric scanner. The heavy oak door of the penthouse clicked open. She stepped inside, the cold, minimalist decor of the apartment greeting her like a mausoleum.
She locked the door behind her and kicked off her heels. She walked across the marble floor to the living room, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the New York skyline that had once made her feel like she was on top of the world. Tonight, it just looked cold and distant.
Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. It was an iMessage from an unknown number.
"It wasn't my intention to take the endorsement," the message read. "Please don't be mad. Kevon said it was for the best."
Attached was a photo. It was Kayla, lying in bed, the sheets pooled around her waist. In the background, clearly visible, was the custom headboard of the master suite in this very penthouse.
Fiona's stomach roiled. The sheer audacity of the woman-screwing her fiancé in her bed and then sending her the photos-was breathtaking.
She didn't reply. She silenced the phone and tossed it onto the sofa. She walked straight to the home office.
She powered on the high-end color printer. She connected it to her cloud drive and hit 'Print All.' The machine hummed to life, spitting out high-resolution copies of Kevon's affairs. The sound of the printer was rhythmic, almost therapeutic.
She grabbed a roll of thick, red duct tape from the utility drawer. She gathered the stack of photos and walked into Kevon's walk-in closet.
She didn't hesitate. She tore off a strip of tape and slapped it onto the lapel of a ten-thousand-dollar Tom Ford suit, pinning a photo of Kevon with a blonde in a hotel room right over the pocket square.
She moved down the row. A photo on the Valentino tie rack. A photo taped to the glass of the Rolex display case. She covered every surface of his pristine, organized world with the evidence of his sleaze.
She saved the best for last. She walked into the master bedroom. She took the enlarged photo of Kayla in the bed-the one Kayla had so thoughtfully provided-and taped it squarely in the center of the full-length mirror.
She stood back and surveyed her work. The apartment, once a sterile temple to their supposed love, now looked like the scene of a crime. It was perfect.
She went to her own closet. She ignored the Birkin bags, the Louboutins, the Chanel jackets-gifts from Kevon, all of them. She dragged out a black Rimowa suitcase. She packed only the clothes she had bought with her own money, her sketchbooks, and her passport.
She walked to the vanity. Sitting in the center of the velvet-lined jewelry box was the three-million-dollar pink diamond engagement ring. It caught the light, throwing prisms on the ceiling.
She picked it up. The diamond was heavy, cold, and lifeless. It was a symbol of a contract, not a union.
She carried it out to the kitchen. She held the ring over the marble island and let it drop. It hit the stone with a sharp, final clink.
She reached into her purse and pulled out a tube of red lipstick-the same aggressive red she had worn to his office. She uncapped it and leaned over the island. In bold, sweeping strokes, she wrote one word next to the ring: DISGUSTING.
She capped the lipstick and dropped it into her bag.
Her phone lit up again. It was an unknown number, but the persistent, angry rhythm of the rings told her exactly who it was-Kevon, likely using a burner or a friend's phone after finding himself blocked.
Fiona stared at the screen. She didn't feel anger anymore. She just felt done. She held down the power button and watched the screen go black.
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and walked to the front door. She didn't look back at the view, the apartment, or the life she was leaving behind.
She stepped into the hallway and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged with a solid, final click.
Downstairs, a black Lincoln Navigator was waiting at the curb. The driver, a man in a dark suit, took her suitcase and placed it in the trunk.
"JFK Airport, Terminal 4," Fiona said, sliding into the leather backseat.
The car pulled away from the curb. Fiona looked out the window as the building shrank in the distance. She pulled out her phone, popped out the SIM card, and replaced it with a new, unregistered one.
She leaned her head against the cool glass and closed her eyes. The nightmare was over. It was time to wake up.
