"He won't," Maya said. "I can tell. He's really changing."
"Maybe." I sighed. "But I can't hang all my hopes on his transformation. I have to prepare for the worst."
Maya didn't argue. She just reached out and took my hand. Her warmth reminded me of walking home from school together as kids.
That afternoon, I went to the new apartment.
The elevator opened directly onto the thirty-second floor. Through the windows, Rochester's skyline glowed gold in the sunset. The river beyond looked like a silver ribbon.
The place was massive. Living room, kitchen, four bedrooms, five bathrooms, plus a study. Everything was new—sleek,modern furniture that looked expensive. The kitchen had top-of-the-line imported appliances.
I walked into the master bedroom. King-size bed with cream sheets. Fresh lilies on the nightstand, next to a black Amex card.
I picked up the card. Lucas's handwriting, elegant cursive: Please accept it.
I set the card down and sat on the bed. The mattress was soft—I sank right in. A crystal chandelier caught the sunset, scattering fragments of light.
This apartment was too much.
A different universe from where I'd been staying. But I wouldn't let it change how I lived. I'd still buy sale items at the grocery store, still cook my own meals, still spend every dollar carefully.
I wouldn't use Lucas's unlimited credit card. I wouldn't let him disrupt my plans.
This time, I wanted to rely on myself.
I had to rely on myself.
I never wanted to be this blindsided again when he left.
The days that followed settled into routine.
Maya was discharged and moved into one of the guest rooms. Her recovery was going well. Doctors said she could start light activities. Every morning we'd eat breakfast together, then she'd read or watch TV in the living room. Sometimes while I studied, she'd sit nearby, bringing me water or organizing my notes.
I devoted most of my time to preparing for the nursing exam. I'd bought textbooks and practice tests online and studied at least six hours daily. The material was dense and difficult, but I forced myself through it piece by piece.
The only change was Lucas's calls.
He'd become like a teenager with separation anxiety. He called almost daily—mornings, evenings. His voice always sounded exhausted, but when he spoke to me, it softened.
"How are you today, Ella? Is the baby giving you trouble?" His voice came through the line with a carefulness I'd never heard before.
"He's only a few months along, Lucas." I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear while struggling with a box of nursing textbooks that had just arrived.
"What are you doing? I hear something heavy moving."
"Unpacking textbooks I ordered."
"You're moving them yourself?" Lucas sounded anxious. "Ella, no. What if it affects the baby? You already had that bleeding episode. You can't risk anything."
His tone carried an edge—that Rockefeller need for control showing through.
"That was an accident. I'm being careful now, Lucas." I was exasperated. "Trust me, Lucas. No one protects her child better than a mother."
Silence on his end, then a defeated sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm just worried."
"I know."
"Ella," he said suddenly. "I want to send someone to look after you. A professional caregiver, or a nutritionist. You're six months pregnant now. You need help."
