Chapter 2

Cecilia's POV

The apartment door opened to silence.

This was supposed to be our home—Elliot's and mine. Three thousand square feet, floor-to-ceiling windows, every piece of furniture I'd tracked down myself at vintage shops all over New York. The French oak bookshelf in the corner—we'd argued for an entire afternoon over the stain color. The deep navy linen throw pillow on the couch—I'd found it at a little shop in Brooklyn that was barely keeping its lights on.

Standing here now, all I felt was cold.

I walked to the entryway, ready to drop my keys in the tray, when I noticed something on the table. A black velvet box.

Cartier.

My heart gave a small jolt.

The wedding bands. A month ago, Elliot had been mysteriously hinting about a surprise, said he'd been personally involved in the design. I'd half-expected him to pull them out at the boutique today.

I opened the box.

Two rings sat side by side. The man's band was a clean, simple platinum loop. The woman's was something else entirely—a crown-shaped setting, pink diamonds, ornate and over-the-top.

I stared at it.

I'm a perfumer. My hands work with precision instruments and delicate compounds every single day. I'd always hated designs like this—too fussy, too many prongs to snag on things. I'd told Elliot explicitly: I just want a simple diamond band. Clean, minimal.

I picked it up and tried to slide it onto my ring finger.

It stopped at the knuckle. Wouldn't budge.

Two sizes too small.

"Hey—what are you doing with that?"

The front door opened behind me. Elliot walked in, bringing the cold with him. His eyes dropped to the ring in my hand and something flickered across his face—fast, gone. He crossed the room and took it from me, snapping the box shut.

"You're back. Is Vivienne okay?" I turned and walked to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of ice water.

"She took something and crashed. Margaux's with her." He shrugged off his jacket, tugged at his tie. "I came back for a file. Heading to the office after."

A beat of silence.

"So. You saw the rings."

"The size is wrong." I took a sip. Cold enough to make my stomach ache. "And it's not what I asked for."

Elliot dragged a hand through his hair, exhaled hard. "Cecilia, look—can you not be so damn particular about everything? I showed Vivienne the design—she said the pink diamonds would flatter your skin tone, and the crown setting has this whole princess vibe. The size is probably just a mistake. Take it in, get it resized. Why do you always have to make everything such a big deal?"

"You probably just got the size wrong."

I set down my glass and turned to face him.

Seven years ago, we were living in a basement apartment in Queens with no heat. Valentine's Day. He'd spent fifty bucks from his paycheck at a street vendor and come home with a cheap little daisy ring.

He'd held my freezing hands in both of his, bent down, and pressed his lips to my ring finger. Cecilia, someday when I've got real money, I'm going to get you the biggest diamond there is.

That daisy ring was still sitting at the back of my bottom drawer.

But this ring in front of me? This was clearly Vivienne's size.

"Elliot." I looked him straight in the eye. "That's Vivienne's style. And that's Vivienne's size. Isn't it?"

His jaw tightened.

Panic flashed across his face for half a second before it hardened into anger. "What the HELL is wrong with you? Vivienne is your sister. She helped me pick something out—what is the big deal? Honestly, you've been so paranoid lately. It's SUFFOCATING."

Suffocating.

I almost laughed.

When he'd bailed on our anniversary—again—to take Vivienne to her therapist. When he'd turned my studio into Vivienne's practice room. When he'd walked into every social event with Vivienne on his arm while I trailed behind them like an assistant.

Who, exactly, was suffocating who?

"Fine," I said. Flat. Quiet.

Elliot blinked.

Before, I would've pushed back—eyes stinging, voice rising—going around and around until he finally pulled me in and ended it with one of his lazy, hollow kisses.

Tonight I had nothing. No anger, no tears. Just nothing.

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed." I walked past him toward the bedroom. "Grab your file and go."

He stood there for a moment, thrown. Then he called after me, "Cecilia—I'll get the ring resized, okay? And don't forget the charity gala next week. Look presentable. Vivienne's going—she'll need you there. Be nice to her."

I didn't turn around. I shut the bedroom door behind me.

The second it clicked, I picked up my phone.

A message from Jean-Pierre sat on the screen: Cecilia, I've arranged an apartment in Paris. Does next Friday's flight work?

I typed back without hesitating: Perfect. Thank you.

Then I opened my laptop, pulled up the building's tenant portal, and removed my name from the lease.

After that, I opened the wedding planner's email thread and typed one message—cancel the venue, the flowers, the catering. All of it.

Done, I pulled a black roller bag from the closet and started packing.

Everything Elliot had bought me—the clothes, the jewelry—I left exactly where it was. I took my perfumer's notebooks, a few old things, and the daisy ring from the back of the bottom drawer.

That ring was from the man I'd known seven years ago. That man deserved to be remembered.

The man on the other side of that door didn't deserve to keep a single thing of mine.

From the other room came the sound of the front door closing.

He left without so much as knocking.

I stood beside my suitcase and looked around one last time. The candle I'd bought last year on the nightstand. The photo from Bali on the desk—both of us smiling. My scarf still draped over the windowsill where I'd left it to dry.

I turned the photo face-down. Took the scarf.

Then I picked up my bag and turned off the light.

You want to take care of Vivienne so badly? Fine.

Have fun with that.

I'm done.