The relief that floods through me is so powerful it’s almost dizzying. “Yeah. That’s… yeah.” A wide, goofy grin spreads across my face. “Great. That’s… great. Friday?”
We exchange numbers, the simple act of her typing her name,Snow, into my phone, feeling charged with a significance that makes my hand tremble slightly.
“I should go,” she says, gathering her books. “Thank you for the chat, Wyatt. It’s been fun.”
“Anytime,” I say.
I watch her walk out of the café, a real smile on her face this time, a smile that I helped put there. She moves with a newfound confidence, a lightness in her step that wasn’t there when she walked in.
I stay at my table for a few more minutes, replaying our conversation, the easy laughter, the shared vulnerability. I know she’s fragile. I know there’s a deep well of pain behind her beautiful, determined eyes. I know I have to move slowly, to be patient, to earn her trust.
As I finally stand to leave, a profound sense of hope settles over me, a feeling I haven’t had in a very long time. She didn’t see the guy from the cardboard cutout today. She saw me.
Chapter 11
Snow
The iron gates of the Darlington estate glide open with a silent, deferential whisper, just as they always have. But today, as I drive through them, the feeling is entirely different. I’m not returning home; I’m infiltrating enemy territory. For six years, this place was my life, a gilded cage I mistook for a palace. Now, as I look at the perfectly manicured lawns, the fountains tinkling with a sound like breaking glass, and the imposing, ivy-covered facade of the house, I see it for what it truly is: a beautiful, cold, and soulless prison.
“You okay?” Nico asks from the passenger seat, her voice a steadying presence. She’s swapped her corporate power suit for black jeans and a fitted leather jacket, looking less like a high-powered assistant and more like a cat burglar ready for a heist. Her brothers are waiting, on speed dial, in case we need to call for backup.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I’m surprised to find that it’s true. The familiar knot of anxiety that used to tighten in my stomach every time I passed through these gates is gone, replaced by a cold,clear sense of purpose. “It’s strange. I feel like a ghost haunting the halls of my own life.”
“Good,” Nico says, a grim smile touching her lips. “Ghosts are scary. Let’s go haunt this place.”
We have a two-hour window, legally negotiated by Patricia and Preston’s lawyers. I’m allowed to collect pre-marital assets and personal effects today between 2 and 4 PM. Preston is to be away, per the agreement. The staff have been given the afternoon off — another detail spelled out in the legal correspondence. Nico has a checklist on her phone, a detailed inventory she prepared days ago from memory and my descriptions. This isn’t a frantic, emotional packing session like the day I walked out. This is a tactical extraction with a legal mandate.
We enter through the side door, the silence of the house pressing in on us. The only sound is the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer, a sound that has measured out my time here in agonizingly slow increments.
We move with a quiet, efficient purpose, a two-woman army on a mission. We bypass the formal rooms and head straight for the master suite, the room that was once Preston and mine’s shared space.
I walk into the massive, walk-in closet, and I’m immediately assaulted by the scent of Preston’s cologne, a scent I once found sophisticated but now find artificial. I ignore the racks of designer dresses he bought for me, the rows of expensive shoes I was expected to wear. Those are part of the costume, the uniform of Mrs. Preston Darlington III.
When I left that first day, I could only grab what fit in a single duffel bag — the essentials, the things I couldn’t leave behind. But there’s more. Things I want back. Things that are mine.
I moved to the built-in shelving unit where Preston insisted I store my “clutter.” My hands are steadier than I expected as Ipull down what I came for. A collection of my college textbooks — business strategy, marketing, and economics. Books I loved, books I studied until the pages were torn. Preston insisted I keep them hidden away. Next to them, a box of photography from my parents’ farm—prints I’d framed myself years ago, images of home that Bitsy deemed “too rustic” for the Darlington aesthetic.
A sound from outside makes us both freeze.
“Must be the neighbors,” Nico says after peering through the window, but my heart is hammering against my ribs. I force myself to breathe. To keep moving.
I pull out a set of framed art prints I bought on a trip to Miami before I was married — abstract watercolors in blues and greens that made me think of freedom. Preston hated them. Said they clashed with “the house’s established palette.” I’d packed them away rather than fight about it. In another box, my grandmother’s recipe cards, hand-written and stained with use. A quilted throw my mother made for me as a wedding gift that was deemed “too homespun”.
I pick up the recipe box, my grandmother’s handwriting instantly recognizable on the index cards.Snow’s Favorite Chocolate Chip Cookies. My throat tightens, but I swallow it down. There’s no time for that now.
Each item I place in the cardboard boxes we bought is a small act of rebellion, a piece of my soul being reclaimed. Nico works silently beside me, her presence a steady anchor.
We’re just taping up the last box when the sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway sends a spike of pure, cold adrenaline through my veins. This time, it’s not the neighbors.
“Shit,” Nico hisses, her eyes wide. She’s already pulling out her phone, checking the time. “He should still be in his three o’clock meeting. He shouldn’t be here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice surprisingly calm. The old Snow would have panicked, would have hidden. The new Snow stands her ground. “I have every right to be here.”
The front door slams open, the sound echoing through the silent house like a gunshot. “Snow!” Preston’s voice bellows, a sound of pure, unfiltered rage. “Where are you?”
We hear his heavy, expensive shoes stomping up the grand staircase. A moment later, he appears in the doorway of the bedroom, his face a mask of controlled fury, his eyes cold and hard as steel. He takes in the scene — the cardboard boxes, the open closet, the two of us standing in the middle of the room — and a contemptuous sneer twists his lips.
“What is all this?” he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain. “Did you really think you could just walk in here and take whatever you want?”
