"Get out," Emily screamed, throwing a pillow at him. "Get out of the bedroom! Go sleep with your bottle!"
Harrison stood up, swaying slightly. He grabbed his jeans. He walked out of the room, leaving Emily sobbing on the bed.
He went to the living room. He sat on the floor—the same spot where they had fucked two weeks after the divorce.
He picked up the bottle of whiskey. It was almost empty.
He took a swig. It burned, but not as much as the truth.
He loved Sarah. And he was going to die in this apartment, loving her, while another woman raised his child.
Chapter Twelve
Sarah
Sarah woke up.
It wasn't a gasp, or a startle, or a slow drag from a nightmare. She simply opened her eyes. The sun was streaming through the sheer white curtains she had installed last month, casting a soft, hazy glow over the room.
She stretched, her limbs extending into the empty space of the King-sized bed. For the first three months, the empty space had felt like a cliff edge she was afraid to fall off. Now? Now it felt like luxury. It felt like territory she had conquered.
It had been six months.
Six months since the lobby. Six months since the scream in the car.
The first month had been survival—just breathing, eating, and signing legal documents.
The second month had been anger—she had hired a contractor to gut the kitchen. Every swing of the sledgehammer against the granite counter where Harrison had betrayed her felt like therapy.
The third month had been silence.
And now, slowly, almost imperceptibly, there was peace.
She got up and walked to the kitchen. It was unrecognizable now. The dark wood was gone, replaced by airy open shelving and sage green cabinets. It was her kitchen. There were no ghosts here anymore, just the smell of her brewing coffee.
She checked her phone. A notification from her calendar: Gallery Opening: The "Vertex" Project. 7:00 PM.
She smiled. It was the first major project she had completed solo since the divorce. She had poured her grief into the blueprints, and the result was something sharper, bolder than anything she had designed before.
The gallery was humming with the low murmur of expensive conversation and the clink of wine glasses. Sarah stood near a structural column she had fought to keep exposed, holding a glass of sparkling water.
She wore a backless emerald dress. It was a risk. The old Sarah—Harrison’s Sarah—would have worn something modest, something that didn't draw attention. This Sarah wanted to feel the air on her skin.
"It’s a bold choice," a voice said to her right.
Sarah turned.
A man was standing there, looking up at the exposed steel beam she was admiring. He was tall, with salt-and-pepper hair and shoulders that filled out his charcoal suit. He wasn't handsome in the boyish, charming way Harrison was. He had a face that looked lived-in—lines around his eyes, a strong jaw, a steadiness to his posture.
"The dress or the beam?" Sarah asked, surprising herself with the banter.
He looked at her then. His eyes were a warm, intelligent hazel. He didn't scan her body; he looked right at her face.
"The beam," he smiled, and the lines around his eyes deepened. "Most architects would have wrapped it in drywall to hide the mechanics. You left the scars visible. It holds the whole ceiling up, doesn't it?"
Sarah felt a small spark of recognition. "It does. If I covered it, I’d be lying about how the building works. I don't likelies anymore. Structural honesty is... important to me."
He nodded, turning his body fully toward her. He extended a hand. "I’m Julian. Structural Engineer. I usually argue with architects, but tonight, I think I’m agreeing with one."
