Chapter 2

Harper's POV

My phone buzzed for the third time on the seat, then went silent.

I didn't answer. It didn't ring again.

The moment that screen went dark, I got it. If someone's truly afraid of losing you, they don't stop after three calls. They call until you pick up, until you respond, until you cave. Three times—that was his limit. Any more than that, he couldn't be bothered.

Just like everything else.

Five years of making things easy for him.

The cab stopped outside our apartment building on the Upper East Side.

We'd moved here after Caleb's Series C closed—the entire floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. I used to think this was our happy ending.

Stupid.

I pushed through the door. The motion sensor lights flickered on. I didn't bother with my shoes, just walked straight into the bedroom and dragged out an old suitcase from the bottom of the closet.

The walk-in was huge. But eighty percent of it belonged to Caleb—custom suits, limited edition sneakers, an entire wall of watches. My clothes were shoved into one pathetic corner, like I didn't really live here.

I opened the suitcase. Didn't touch any of the gowns or jewelry he'd bought me later. Just grabbed a few basic shirts, jeans, and some skincare.

Halfway through packing, my eyes caught on the old coffee maker sitting on the counter.

Discontinued model, paint chipped off. Completely out of place in this apartment.

I froze.

Three years ago, Caleb's company was barely surviving. He'd lock himself in his room coding, going days without sleep. To keep him going, I quit my gallery internship and worked three jobs—morning shift at a café, evening shifts waiting tables, weekends doing translation work.

That coffee maker was from back then. Every morning at five, I'd get up to brew him a fresh cup, then slip out quietly to catch the subway.

One night I had a fever, body shaking. Just wanted him to get me some water. I walked into the living room and found him staring at his phone, smiling like that.

Paige. She was interning in San Francisco, complaining about the cold. He texted back: "Once I get through this crunch, I'll take you to Hawaii. We'll see the ocean."

I didn't ask for that water. Just swallowed the fever medicine myself.

Later when I brought it up, he shrugged it off. "Look, Paige is out there alone. What's wrong with looking out for a friend? Jesus, Harper, why do you have to be so damn sensitive?"

After that, I learned to handle being sick on my own. Learned to keep my mouth shut about them. I thought if I was understanding enough, accommodating enough, he'd eventually notice.

But I was wrong. All that backing down just taught him to keep pushing forward.

I tore my eyes away from the coffee maker and kept packing.

Opened a drawer for my passport—a yellowed manila envelope caught my eye.

My fingers trembled.

Four years ago. The acceptance letter from Parsons School of Design.

Studying art curation in Paris had been my childhood dream. I'd spent two years preparing for that spot, submitted countless portfolios. The day I got accepted, I bought a little cake to celebrate with him.

Walked through the door to find Caleb on the floor, head in his hands. Devastated.

His server had crashed. He needed fifty thousand dollars immediately for repairs and upgrades, or everything he'd built would be gone. Investors had pulled out. Banks refused loans. He was out of options.

That night, looking at his bloodshot eyes, I quietly hid the letter behind my back.

The next day, I deferred. Then quietly withdrew my acceptance and transferred that fifty thousand—my tuition and Paris living expenses—every last cent into his account.

He asked where the money came from. I said my parents lent it to me.

He hugged me tight, voice shaking. "Harper, you're my savior. When I make it, I swear—you'll be the happiest woman alive."

He did make it.

And his version of making me "happy" was letting me stand on the sidelines watching him worship someone else.

I pulled out the letter. The paper had gone brittle, my name still printed across the top. My eyes stung—not for Caleb, but for the girl who'd been stupid enough to burn her dreams for love.

I laid the letter flat on the table.

Then slowly slipped off the engagement ring.

Three hundred thousand dollars. The day he bought it, I'd only wanted something for a few thousand.

I'd dragged him to Fifth Avenue back when his company was just starting out, every dollar precious. I said, "Something simple is fine. It's about us, not the price, right?"

He nodded.

Paige was there too. She hung on his arm, playing helpful friend, pointing at a display of diamond necklaces. "Caleb, don't you think this one would look good on me?"

Without a word, he told the sales associate to wrap it. Eighteen thousand.

My best friend Sarah happened to be meeting me that day. She stood there, face tight.

Then she called him out right there. "So Caleb, who exactly is your girlfriend here? Because honestly, I'm confused."

Caleb's face went from red to white.

Finally, he shoved that three-hundred-thousand-dollar ring toward me. "Fine. This one then. You're worth it."

I took it. Wore it for two years.

I never knew if that ring was for Sarah or for him.

All I knew was today it was cutting into my finger.

I didn't hesitate. Pressed it down on top of that letter.

"Consider it the price of a lesson," I said quietly.

I zipped up the suitcase and dragged it toward the door. The lock clicked shut behind me.

I was leaving five years behind that door. And the Harper who'd made herself small.

I pulled out my phone, blocked both Caleb and Paige, then opened the airline app.

I searched: LAX one-way tonight.

Whatever left soonest.