Kamiyah moved through the brownstone like she'd always lived there.
She started with the kitchen. On the third morning I came downstairs and the French press was gone. In its place sat a chrome espresso machine the size of a small suitcase. The ceramic bowls I'd picked out at a flea market in Brooklyn — back when Weston and I ate cereal standing up at the counter — had been replaced with white porcelain from Williams Sonoma. Still in the boxes.
I opened the fridge. My almond milk was gone. So was the half-empty jar of pickles I'd been working through since Madeline was born. In their place: oat milk in a glass bottle, organic raspberries, a wedge of brie wrapped in wax paper.
I closed the fridge. I made toast. I ate it over the sink.
By the end of the week my toiletries were gone from the master bathroom. I found them in a Duane Reade bag on the guest room bed. My face wash. My moisturizer. The cheap drugstore mascara I'd been using since college. All of it in a plastic bag like someone had cleaned out a gym locker.
I moved into the guest room. No one said anything. No one noticed.
Kamiyah started hosting dinners.
The first one was on a Thursday. I heard voices downstairs around seven — men's voices, loud and easy, the kind of laughter that comes with old money and older friendships. I stayed upstairs with Madeline. I fed her. I changed her. I sang to her in a whisper.
Around eight I heard footsteps on the stairs. The nanny. She knocked twice.
"Mr. Harrison says the baby should come down."
I looked at her. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Why?"
"Ms. Mendoza wants to hold her. For the guests."
I held Madeline tighter. Her small hand curled around my thumb.
"No," I said.
The nanny shifted her weight. "Mr. Harrison said—"
"I said no."
She left. Five minutes later Weston came up. He didn't knock. He opened the door and stood in the frame with his shirt sleeves rolled and a glass of scotch in his hand.
"Bring her down," he said.
"She just fell asleep."
"Elodie."
I looked at my daughter. Her eyelids fluttered. Her mouth made a small O.
I carried her downstairs.
The living room was full. Marcus Webb sat on the sectional with his shoes off, feet up on the ottoman I'd reupholstered myself. Two other men I recognized from Weston's Columbia days stood by the bar cart. And Kamiyah sat at the head of the dining table — my table, the one Weston and I had bought together at an estate sale in Connecticut — in a black slip dress, hair pinned up, smiling.
She held out her arms when she saw me.
I handed Madeline over. My hands shook. I pressed them against my thighs.
"She's so sweet," Kamiyah said to the room. She looked down at Madeline like she was holding a purse she was considering buying. "Isn't she sweet?"
Marcus raised his glass. "To Weston. And his upgrade."
They laughed. All of them. Weston lifted his scotch and grinned.
I turned and went back upstairs. No one called after me. No one noticed I'd left.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed and stared at the wall until I heard them leave two hours later.
***
I couldn't sleep.
I lay in the guest bed with the lights off and listened to the brownstone settle. Footsteps downstairs. The clink of glasses being loaded into the dishwasher. Kamiyah's voice, light and easy, asking Weston something I couldn't make out. His low reply. Then nothing.
I got up. I went downstairs in bare feet. The kitchen was dark except for the under-cabinet lights. Weston's phone sat on the counter next to his keys.
I picked it up. No password. He'd never had one. He used to joke that he had nothing to hide from me.
I opened the group chat.
It was called "The Boys." Six members. Weston. Marcus. Four others.
I scrolled up. And up. And up.
Months of messages.
**Marcus Webb:** "Bro when are you ditching the charity case"
**Tyler Nguyen:** "Seriously. Kamiyah's back and you're still playing house?"
**Marcus Webb:** [screenshot of Kamiyah's Instagram — her in Paris, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower in a red coat] "THE UPGRADE"
**Jake Morrison:** [fire emoji] [fire emoji] [fire emoji]
**Tyler Nguyen:** "Elodie's sweet but like. She's a starter wife. You know?"
**Marcus Webb:** "Starter wife is generous. She's a placeholder."
I kept scrolling.
**Marcus Webb:** "Did you see her at the gala? That dress. She looked like she was trying so hard."
**Tyler Nguyen:** "I felt bad for her honestly"
**Marcus Webb:** "Don't. She knew what she signed up for."
I looked for Weston's name. I looked for a defense. A single word. Anything.
There was nothing.
He had laughed along. He had sent the fire emojis. He had never once said stop.
I set the phone back down. Exactly where I found it. I wiped the screen with the hem of my shirt so there wouldn't be fingerprints.
I went back upstairs. I lay down in the guest bed. I stared at the ceiling.
Something inside me — the last soft part, the part that still hoped — went very still.
And then it went quiet.
And then it went cold.
