By morning, I understood something clearly. This was no longer a careful exit. It was a race.
PART 3
The papers were supposed to be served at Everett’s office in Manhattan, placed neatly on his desk so the quiet authority of the setting would do part of the work for me, but because he unexpectedly stayed home that morning with an energy that felt forced and overly attentive, the courier arrived at the house instead.
I was standing in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, listening to the kettle begin its soft ticking while rain pressed against the windows, and Everett walked across the foyer in socked feet before returning with a cream envelope in his hand and a faint smile that vanished the moment he read the sender’s name.
“What is this?” he asked, though his voice had already shifted into something colder.
I did not answer, because the truth was already unfolding in his hands.
He opened the envelope, read the documents, and moved through each page with growing stillness until he reached the photographs, and when his eyes landed on the image of Lauren wearing the sapphire pendant, something in his expression hardened in a way that made the room feel smaller.