Chapter 4
Cecilia's POV
At two in the morning, the front door opened and Elliot walked in.
I was sitting on the couch in the dark. No lights. The city glow came through the floor-to-ceiling windows and cut the room into sharp geometric shadows.
"Cecilia?" He stopped when he saw me. "Why are you still up?"
"Waiting for you." I said. "Check your phone."
He pulled it out. The screen lit up—a bank transfer notification. A significant one.
His expression shifted. "What the hell is this?"
"Exactly what it looks like." I stood up. "Everything you've given me over the years. I sent it back."
"Cecilia—" He crossed the room, voice already edging toward impatience. "Are you seriously doing this right now? Is this about tonight? I told you, Vivienne has depression. She—"
"She's not doing well." I cut him off. "I know. That's been your reason for taking her side for years."
He went quiet. Like he hadn't expected me to be this calm.
"So you should understand—"
"Oh, I understand." I nodded. "I understand perfectly. Which is why I don't think we should get married."
Silence.
"...What did you just say?"
"Elliot." I looked him in the eye. "Do you actually still want to marry me? What does this marriage even mean to you at this point?"
Something flickered across his face. Panic.
First time I'd ever seen that.
"What—what are you talking about? The wedding's all set. The venue, the guest list—"
"I canceled it."
His eyes went wide. "Cecilia!"
"What?" I held his gaze. "You're mad? Because I canceled a wedding you don't even care about?"
"I DO care!" His voice jumped. "What the hell makes you think I don't? YOU'RE the one being unreasonable—Vivienne got hurt, I went to be with her, what is the PROBLEM? She's your sister! Can you just cut her some slack for once?"
"Compassion." I let the word sit there. "Elliot, haven't I shown enough of that these past seven years?"
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
I turned toward the bedroom. "I'm tired. You should get some sleep."
"Cecilia, wait—" He followed and caught my wrist. "I know you're upset. Look—I made a reservation at Le Bernardin. Tomorrow night, seven o'clock. Just the two of us. Our anniversary—I didn't forget."
I stopped.
Le Bernardin. The three-Michelin-star place I'd been wanting to go for years. I'd brought it up more than once. He always said it was impossible to get a table.
"Just the two of us?"
"Just us." His voice softened. "I promise. I'll explain. We'll sit down and work this out."
I looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
"Okay."
He exhaled.
I pulled my wrist free, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door.
I leaned against it in the dark.
Not because I was expecting anything anymore.
I just wanted a proper ending.
The next evening at six-thirty, I walked out of the penthouse we'd shared for five years, one small black suitcase in hand.
On the coffee table, I'd left the spare key, the black card, and the pink diamond ring that had never fit. Neat and aligned, side by side.
Next to them was a single sheet of paper—the dissolution of engagement agreement, already signed.
I took nothing that wasn't mine. Same as when I arrived.
At seven o'clock sharp, I was seated at Le Bernardin, window table, watching the first winter rain streak down the glass and shatter the neon reflections outside.
Seven-thirty. No Elliot.
Eight o'clock. The waiter came by for the third time and politely asked if I'd like to start without my guest.
I smiled and shook my head.
Eight-thirty. My phone finally lit up.
Not a call from Elliot. A video from Vivienne.
She was in a hospital bed, left ankle in a cast, eyes shining with tears she wasn't quite crying. Elliot sat beside her, carefully peeling an apple, his face all tender attention.
"I'm so sorry, Cecilia." Vivienne's voice was pure innocence. "I slipped on the stairs and twisted my ankle. Elliot wouldn't leave until he knew I was okay. I guess your anniversary dinner is ruined. I'm sorry about that." A small, practiced pause. "You're not mad at me, are you?"
At the end of the video, Elliot's voice cut in, flat and impatient: "Vivienne, why are you even explaining yourself to her? She's a grown woman—she can eat alone. You need to rest."
The video ended.
I stared at the dark screen.
And felt—nothing. No, not nothing. Something better than nothing.
Relief.
Like a weight I'd been carrying for seven years had just snapped clean off.
No anger. No tears. Not even the urge to cry.
I flagged down the waiter and ordered the foie gras and a glass of Burgundy.
I ate slowly. Tasted every bite. Let myself have it.
This was my last meal in New York. And my last goodbye to the version of Cecilia who'd spent seven years shrinking herself to fit someone else's life.
I paid the check with my own card.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The air smelled clean and cold, the way New York does after a storm.
I raised my hand and a yellow cab pulled over.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
"JFK. International departures."
In the backseat, I opened my phone and pulled up Elliot's thread.
Still nothing. No explanation, no apology. In his mind, I was still that same Cecilia—the one who'd come crawling back within a few hours, asking after Vivienne's ankle, swallowing it all down by morning.
I tapped his name and hit Block.
Then Vivienne. Block.
Then Margaux. Block.
I deleted my social media accounts—every one I'd had for ten years—and popped out my SIM card. Let it drop through the gap in the window.
At eleven p.m., I boarded my flight to Paris.
The plane rolled down the runway, then lifted hard into the sky.
Through the oval window, I watched all those lights pulling away—smaller and smaller until the clouds swallowed them whole.
Goodbye, New York.
Goodbye, Elliot.
