Chapter 3

After Elise and I left the boutique, we walked straight into the coffee shop on the corner.

Through the window, I watched Odette tugging at Jackson's sleeve, her coquettish tone shifting into complaints: "Honey, about that nightgown... Jackson? What are you looking at?"

Jackson glanced in my direction, somewhat dazed, before pulling his gaze back. "Nothing."

I saw him pay absentmindedly while Odette dragged him away. I took a sip of my coffee.

"Aren't you going to fight for those clothes?" Elise joked.

I shook my head. "They were never mine to begin with."

I thought that was the end of it.

Three days after leaving the boutique, Jackson's call came through unexpectedly that evening.

I stared at his name on the screen, puzzled. In five years, he'd never bothered with my spending. That card's bills were automatically deducted—he never even looked at them.

I answered.

"You canceled the card?" His voice was tight with suppressed anger. "The finance department asked if I wanted to issue a new one. That's how I found out."

"Yes." I was towel-drying my hair while looking in the mirror. "The separation agreement's in effect. Using your card wouldn't be appropriate."

"The separation is the separation, money is money! Do you have to be so calculating about everything?" He paused. "Or is this another one of your games to make me end the separation early?"

I laughed inwardly. In his eyes, even my independence could only be a manipulation.

"You're overthinking it." I tossed the towel aside. "If I'm going to be mature about this, I'll be completely mature about it."

He clearly hadn't expected that response. After a few seconds, his tone softened, taking on that familiar condescending tolerance:

"Cordelia, I know you're upset. But you don't need to prove anything like this. You've used that card for five years—suddenly stopping now, what will people think? They'll assume I'm mistreating you, or that we're having problems."

"Here's what we'll do—tomorrow I'll have my secretary set up a new card for you, double the limit. Buy whatever you want, go to Paris, Milan—just lay low this month."

I almost laughed out loud. After five years, he still didn't get it.

"No need. I have enough of my own money."

Jackson went silent. "Your own money? Where the hell would you get your own money? Cordelia, are you involved with someone?"

Those words came out sharp and accusatory, exposing his suspicion.

"If you called just to interrogate me, I'm hanging up."

"That's not what I meant." He quickly backpedaled. "I'm just worried about you. With me not around, you being alone..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. Because even he knew I'd spent more time alone these five years than with him.

"This time was my fault." His voice dropped. "But it's truly the last time. Once Odette's surgery is over, everything will go back to normal. I promise."

I didn't respond. Just listened, like hearing a script I'd memorized long ago.

The prolonged silence made Jackson uneasy.

"Your birthday is next month, the 15th." He deliberately softened his voice. "I've booked the 'St. Charles' riverboat suite. We'll cruise the Mississippi for the day, just the two of us."

He paused: "I've cleared my entire schedule. I've arranged for someone to look after Odette."

For a moment, I was almost stunned by this "gift." In five years, he'd never cleared a complete day for me.

But only for a moment.

Because I clearly remembered that on July 16th at dawn, my departure flight would take off from New Orleans airport.

Before I could respond, Odette's voice cut in:

"Jackson—I can't find that supplement... and you said you'd give me a massage. My back is so sore."

Sweet, cloying whining, with the sound of clinking glasses in the background, and music—that blues song Jackson loved but had never danced to with me.

"Go ahead." I spoke first, my voice flat and emotionless. "She needs you."

"Cordelia, give me a few minutes." He spoke quickly. "I'll get her to sleep first, then we can keep talking. About the riverboat..."

Footsteps sounded. The phone was set down but not hung up.

Muffled conversation came through the receiver:

"Whose call is that, so late..." Odette was whining.

"Work stuff. Get into bed, I'll be right there." Jackson lowered his voice.

"Bed? Didn't you say massage first?"

Then came the rustle of clothes, Jackson's muffled grunt, the sound of bodies settling on a mattress. The bedroom door closed softly.

The call remained connected. Only music remained on the other end, along with two people's increasingly audible breathing. Unrestrained, even performative.

I hung up expressionlessly. As the screen darkened, it reflected the self-mocking curve of my lips.

Elise pushed through the door, eyes bright: "A friend's new club—there's a male revue tonight. Abs, long legs, charming conversation. Want to go?"

I set down my phone without hesitation: "Yes."

As I linked arms with Elise, I added: "Top shelf everything."

The club was awash in dizzying lights and thunderous music. I sat in the VIP section with Elise on my left and an Italian model on my right—brown hair, green eyes, clean smile, and interesting stories.

For five years, I'd trapped myself beside someone who didn't love me, repeatedly chewing over his every slight. But the world was so vast—full of wine and music and people who actually saw you. Why should I keep standing still for him?

The Italian model offered me a specialty cocktail: "This one's called 'Rebirth.' To you."

I drained it in one gulp. The liquor was strong, and something frozen deep in my heart began to thaw.

Days without Jackson flew by. Soon only a few days remained until July 16th.

Elise occasionally brought news: "I heard Jackson and Odette had a huge fight."

"He got blackout drunk at 'Midnight Rose,' smashed half the bar. They say he was calling out your name."