After mailing a package at the terminal counter, I boarded a flight to the UK, coughing as I made my way down the aisle. My lungs still burned from the smoke. My throat was raw. The bruise on my wrist from where I had dragged myself across the floor was already darkening. But my passport was in my hand, and the documents were in my bag, and the ring finger on my left hand was bare.
Just before the plane took off, my phone buzzed with a text from Dominic.
[I don't have time to play hide-and-seek with you.]
[Daniela has a prenatal check-up tomorrow at 10 a.m. Come with her, and get your lungs checked too.]
I didn't reply. Instead, I removed the SIM card and powered off the phone, dropping it into my coat pocket like something dead.
'Dominic. From this day forward, you and I are done. We will never see each other again.'
The next day, at the Family's private clinic on the Upper East Side.
"Dominic, is our baby okay?"
Meeting Daniela's pitiful, anxious eyes, Dominic immediately pulled her into his arms, speaking to her in a soft, reassuring voice.
"The doctor said the baby is perfectly healthy. No signs of trauma from what happened yesterday."