He looks like I’ve slapped him. Good. At least he’s feeling something.
“I don’t want your consolation prize,” I tell him, and my voice breaks on the last word despite my best efforts. “I don’t want your guilt money or your new, curated life. If you don’t want me here, just say so. Be honest for once.”
“Kirsten—”
“I’m going to pack.”
I don’t give him a chance to respond. I walk out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and close the door behind me, then lean against it with my palm pressed to my mouth to muffle the sound that wants to escape.
Stupid. I was so stupid. I let myself believe that what we had was real. That the sweet moments and the soft touches and the way he looked at me meant something. But it was all just an obligation. Duty. Protection.
And now that the danger is gone, so is the reason for him to pretend.
I give myself exactly sixty seconds to fall apart. Then I wipe my face, square my shoulders, and start throwing clothes into a bag.
I don’t take much. Just the things I brought with me originally, plus a few items I can’t leave behind. Everything else—the dresses he bought me, the jewelry, the shoes—stays in the closet where it belongs.
When I’m done, I check the hallway. It’s mercifully empty. Menlow is probably still in the kitchen, trying to figure out what went wrong.
I slip out the front door without saying goodbye. I don’t leave a note.
If he wants me gone so badly, he can have his wish.
Chapter 22 - Menlow
She’s gone.
I stand in the guestroom doorway, staring at the closet, and try to make sense of what I’m seeing. Her bag is missing. Her toiletries have vanished from the bathroom. The dresser drawers that held her things are bare.
She left everything I bought her. Every dress. Every piece of jewelry. Every pair of shoes. All of it is hanging untouched, like she couldn’t stand to take a single reminder of me with her.
I pull out my phone and dial her number. It rings once, twice, three times. Then it goes to voicemail.
“It’s Menlow, call me back. Please.”
I try again. Same result. When I try to check her location, she has it turned off.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in my car, speeding toward her old apartment. Maybe she went back there. Maybe she just needed space, and she’s sitting in her old living room right now, waiting for me to come find her.
The apartment is dark when I arrive. I knock anyway. No answer. I knock harder. Still nothing.
“Kirsten!” I pound on the door with my fist. “Kirsten, open up!”
A neighbor pokes her head out from the unit next door. “She moved out weeks ago. Hasn’t been back since.”
I try her favorite coffee shop next. The bookstore she likes. The park where she goes to think. Every place I can remember her mentioning, I check. Every location I’ve ever seen on her phone’s GPS history, I visit.
Nothing. She’s vanished.
By midnight, I’m back at the apartment, pacing the living room like a caged animal. Pavel has called twice. Alexei has texted. I ignore them both. I can’t think about anything except finding her.
Where would she go? She doesn’t have family in the city. Her friends from work are acquaintances at best. She has nowhere to—
The front door opens.
I spin around, hoping against hope that she’s come back. But it’s not Kirsten standing in my doorway.
It’s Anya.
