That should have been the moment I threw the check in her face. The moment I tore the papers in half.
The moment I marched into that baby shower and dragged Derek out by his perfectly knotted tie.
Instead, I picked up the pen.
My hand shook so violently I had to clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. I signed my name in the little box beneath Derek’s.
A tear fell and hit the paper, making the ink spider out.
“Good girl,” Eleanor murmured, as if I were a dog who’d finally learned to roll over.
When I stepped out of the study, the party was still going strong. Someone squealed with laughter.
A champagne bottle popped. Women clustered around Amber, asking if she’d picked names yet.
Derek caught my eye across the room. For a brief second, our gazes locked.
I waited for him to cross the room. To look guilty. To look anything.
He glanced away, said something to the man beside him, and turned his back.
That was the moment my heart finally stopped making excuses for him.
The Flight to Paris
I left through the side door. Outside, the Texas sun was blinding, reflecting off the pool and polished cars.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. A text from an unknown number.
“Your flight is at 9 p.m. tonight. First class to Paris. Ticket is in your email.”
Eleanor had booked my escape route before I’d even signed.
I stood in the driveway of the house where I’d celebrated Christmases and anniversaries. Where I’d danced barefoot in the kitchen with Derek.
Where I’d sobbed quietly in the shower so he wouldn’t hear.
My fingers tightened around the check. Seven hundred thousand dollars.
I could have thrown it away just to spite her. But principle doesn’t pay for plane tickets and lawyers.
Principle doesn’t fund investigations or keep you safe when people richer than you decide they’re done with you.
I slipped the check into my clutch, lifted my chin, and walked away.
The flight from Houston to Paris was just over eleven hours. Eleven hours of forced stillness in a metal tube.
Too loud to sleep and too quiet to stop my mind from replaying every moment of the last six years.
I pressed my forehead against the airplane window. The glass was cold against my skin.
Somewhere below us, the Atlantic churned, uncaring. The border between the life I’d had and whatever waited for me in Paris.
I thought about calling Derek. Thought about sending a message.
But I had a secret. One I’d confirmed three days earlier in our bathroom, hands shaking as two pink lines appeared.
I was eight weeks pregnant.
I hadn’t told him yet. I’d wanted to wait until after our next doctor’s appointment.
Until we’d heard a heartbeat. I’d been so afraid of jinxing it.
Now, the idea of telling him felt like some cruel joke.
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