Chapter 3
Renata's POV
The doctor hesitated, then spoke.
"Ma'am. This is a procedure under general anesthesia with organ removal. Under New York State law, a patient self-signing without next of kin carries significant risk. Are you absolutely certain your fiancé or your parents cannot come?"
I looked at him and almost laughed.
Come. Right now Declan was probably sitting on the edge of Phoebe's bed, watching her breathe, feeling like a good man. My parents were somewhere down the hall from her, relieved it was over, maybe getting coffee.
"My parents are dead," I said. "My fiancé got married today. To someone else." I held his gaze. "I only have myself."
The nurse beside him pressed her hand over her mouth. Her eyes went red instantly.
I took the pen and signed my name. Slow and deliberate, letter by letter. Like I was burying the version of myself who'd spent seven years shrinking, apologizing, making room for everyone else.
The moment I set the pen down, that tearing thing in my chest went quiet.
The anesthesia pushed in cold through the IV.
I put my hand over my stomach. Flat. Still.
I'm sorry, baby. I couldn't keep you safe.
But I promise. Nobody's going to hurt us again.
The lights blurred white and then there was nothing.
I woke up in the dark.
Just the machines beeping. The ventilation hum.
I reached for my phone. Screen still shattered.
No missed calls. No messages.
Twenty-four hours. I'd bled out on a ballroom floor, lost a baby, lost a fallopian tube, signed my own surgical consent—and not one of them had called.
I waited for that to hurt.
It didn't.
So that's what it feels like, I thought. When you've finally run out.
I pulled the IV out and sat up.
The nurse rushed in. "Ma'am—you just had major surgery—"
"I need to arrange a transfer." I pulled the emergency cash from my clutch and set it on the nightstand. "Thank you for saving my life. But I can't stay here."
She stared at the cash. Then at me. "You're serious."
"Very."
The penthouse was exactly as we'd left it.
Declan's coffee on the island, cold. Our anniversary photo on the wall. His coat over the couch.
I used to think this place was my whole world.
Now it just felt like a grave.
I pulled a black suitcase from the closet. A few changes of clothes. My passport. My design portfolio—three years of work, the only thing that was entirely mine.
The jewelry he'd given me I left on the dresser. All of it.
I opened my laptop.
The Paris offer had been sitting in my drafts for two months. I'd turned it down in September because I thought we were building something here.
I deleted the old draft.
Mr. Harris—I'd like to accept the Paris placement. I'm available immediately.
His reply came in four minutes.
Renata—are you sure? You just got married. This is a minimum three-year posting.
I typed back:
I'm certain. I have nothing keeping me here.
Send.
I found the white gift box under the island.
The hospital had sent the dress home in a bag. They'd cut it off me. It came back in pieces—skirt shredded, bodice stiff with dried blood.
I folded what was left and laid it in the box.
Then the ultrasound photo. *8 weeks. *
Then the surgical consent form. Fallopian tube removal. Patient self-consented. A dark fingerprint in the corner.
Last, the ring. The plain gold band he'd bought with his first bonus check, seven years ago, down on one knee in our tiny kitchen.
I set it on top of everything.
Closed the box.
Wrote on a Post-it:
Congratulations on your wedding.
I left it on the kitchen island and walked out.
It was snowing. First snow of the season.
I got into a cab to JFK. At 74th and Park I rolled down the window and dropped my cracked phone into the storm drain.
Goodbye, Manhattan.
Goodbye to all of them.
Somewhere over the Atlantic, the penthouse door opened.
Declan came in still wearing his tuxedo shirt, collar open, tie gone.
"Renata." He dropped his keys. "Look, I know you're upset, but you can't just go silent like that. My parents were asking about you all night—" He walked into the living room. "Renata?"
The couch was empty.
No lights except the one above the kitchen island.
He stood there.
Then he saw the box.
He crossed the room, pulled off the Post-it, and lifted the lid.
His pupils contracted.
