The guards let go.
My arms dropped to my sides. I could feel the pressure marks where their fingers had been. The room was still staring. Whispers moved through the crowd like a wave.
I walked to the event coordinator. A woman in a headset with a clipboard.
"My phone," I said.
She looked uncomfortable. "Mrs. Hoffman, I'm not sure—"
"My phone. Now."
She reached into her jacket pocket and handed it to me. Her hand shook slightly.
I took it. I turned.
The vintage Valentino felt heavy on my shoulders. Seven years I'd kept this dress. Seven years I'd preserved it in tissue paper like it was something holy. A piece of who I used to be before I gave it all away for a man who just had me physically restrained in front of Manhattan's elite.
I walked across the marble floor. My heels clicked. The crowd parted.
I stopped at a gilded chair near the coat check. I unzipped the dress at the side. Stepped out of it carefully. I was wearing a slip underneath. Silk. Simple.
I draped the Valentino over the back of the chair.
Someone gasped.
I didn't look at them. I took a coat from the rack. Black wool. Not mine. I didn't care.
I walked out of the Met.
The cold hit me like a fist. December in New York. The kind of cold that gets inside your bones. I stood on the steps and raised my hand. A cab pulled over.
I got in.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
I gave him the address of the penthouse. My home. For three more weeks. Then it would just be a building I used to live in.
The cab pulled into traffic. I looked out the window. The city slid past. Lights. People. Lives I would never know. I pressed my thumb to the inside of my wrist. An old habit. Rory would notice it someday. Much later. He would never mention it.
The cab stopped at a red light. I could see my reflection in the window. A woman in a borrowed coat and a silk slip. No jewelry except my mother's clip. No expression on my face.
I looked like someone who had finally stopped performing.
The light turned green.
***
The penthouse was dark when I got home.
I turned on the kitchen light. The marble counters gleamed. The Sub-Zero refrigerator hummed. Everything was exactly where I'd left it this morning. A museum of a life I was about to walk away from.
I opened the refrigerator.
The fish was there. Wrapped in white paper from the market on Lexington. The good market. The one that charged forty dollars a pound because the fish was always perfect.
I'd bought it yesterday.
I pulled it out. Set it on the counter. I unwrapped it slowly. The smell was clean and cold. Ocean.
I got out the cutting board. The good knife. The one Gideon bought me three Christmases ago. Japanese steel. It cost eight hundred dollars. He'd handed me the box without wrapping it and said, "You mentioned you needed a new one."
I'd never mentioned it.
I filleted the fish. My hands moved without thinking. I'd done this so many times I could do it in my sleep. Skin off. Bones out. Flesh cut into even pieces.
I put a pot on the stove. Added butter. Let it melt. The kitchen filled with the smell of it. Rich. Warm.
I added onions. Diced small. Translucent. I stirred them until they were soft. Added the potatoes. Cubed. The exact size Gideon liked even though he'd never once told me he noticed.
I added stock. Cream. Fresh thyme from the plant on the windowsill. I'd been growing it for two years. Watering it every morning. Pinching off the dead leaves.
I added the fish last. Stirred it gently. Let it simmer.
The smell filled the penthouse. It smelled like every bad day Gideon ever had. Every lost deal. Every difficult board meeting. Every time he came home and I handed him a bowl and he ate it while scrolling through his phone.
I stirred the pot and watched the fish turn opaque.
I thought about the recording. His voice. Cold. Transactional. "The Evans girl is talented, I'll give you that."
The Evans girl.
Not Juniper. Not the woman I was going to marry. Not the person I love.
The girl.
I turned off the heat.
I got out his favorite bowl. Blue ceramic. Wide and shallow. He'd bought it in Tokyo five years ago. He'd handed it to me when we got home and said, "For the chowder."
I ladled the soup carefully. I made sure to get the right ratio of fish to potato to broth. I covered it with a plate.
I set it on the counter.
Then I went to the bedroom and pulled out my suitcase.
