Olivia POV

Coming to the gallery opening was a mistake.

I definitely shouldn't have come. My flight was scheduled for midnight, leaving me with four agonizing hours to kill, and my friend Sarah had begged me to stop by her exhibition in Chelsea.

*Just one drink,* I had told myself. *A final toast to New York before I burn the bridge.*

I didn't expect the universe to play such a cruel, cosmic joke on me.

I was standing by a sculpture of twisted metal—a jagged, chaotic piece that mirrored exactly how I felt inside—sipping sparkling water, when a sudden hush fell over the room.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The air became charged, electric, sucking the oxygen right out of the space.

I turned.

Marcus and Izzy walked in.

They looked like royalty descending upon the peasants. Marcus was in a tuxedo—why on earth was he in a tuxedo at 8 PM?—and Izzy was wearing a silver dress that shimmered like liquid mercury.

I tried to shrink into the shadows. I tried to will myself into becoming part of the drywall.

"Olivia!"

Izzy's voice was a homing missile, locking onto my coordinates with terrifying precision.

She waved, a frantic, performative gesture, and dragged Marcus toward me.

He looked... arrested.

He stopped dead in front of me. His eyes swept over my black turtleneck and jeans. I wasn't dressed for this high-society tableau; I was dressed for a six-hour flight to Montana.

"You're here," Marcus said. His voice was low, rough around the edges.

"I was just leaving," I said.

"We just came from a pre-wedding shoot," Izzy gushed, clinging to his arm as if she were afraid he might float away. She flashed the ring. It caught the harsh gallery lights and blinded me with its calculated brilliance. "Marcus insisted we stop by. He loves supporting local art."

She looked at me with a triumphant smirk. Her eyes screamed it: *I won. You lost. Look at us.*

But Marcus wasn't looking at the art. His gaze was anchored on me.

"I heard you resigned from the research position," he said, ignoring her. "My assistant told me."

"Yes," I said.

"I have a position open in Marketing," he said, the words rushing out a little too fast. "If you need a job. It pays well. You wouldn't have to leave the city."

He was doing it again. Trying to fix my life. Trying to keep me within arm's reach, like a pet he could visit on weekends to assuage his guilt.

"I don't need a job, Marcus," I said.

"Don't be stubborn," he snapped, a flash of his old impatience surfacing. "You can't live on air."

"I have a plan."

"What plan?"

"A new direction."

A man walked by us—someone from our old circle, holding a martini like a weapon. He leaned in, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. "Rough night for a reunion, isn't it? You two were the golden couple. Shame."

Marcus stiffened visibly.

I looked the man dead in the eye. "Marcus and I were strictly business partners. The contract expired."

Marcus flinched.

It was a small movement, a tightening around his eyes, but I saw it. It was the reaction of a man who had just been slapped. I had reduced our entire history—the late nights, the secrets, the love—to a transaction.

"Is that all it was?" Marcus asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the gallery chatter. "A contract?"

"You tell me," I said, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "You're the one marrying the merger."

Izzy's smile faltered, cracking at the edges.

"Well," she said, her voice sharp and brittle. "We should go. People are waiting."

She tugged on his arm, harder this time.

Marcus didn't move for a second. He looked at me, really looked at me, with a confusion I had never seen before. He reached out, as if to brush a stray hair from my forehead—a reflex, a ghost of muscle memory.

I stepped back.

His hand dropped to his side, empty.

"Goodbye, Marcus," I said.

"Take care, Olivia," Izzy said. "Hope you find... whatever it is you're looking for."

They turned and walked away.

I watched them go. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the man I thought I would spend my life with. But he was walking away with a woman he didn't love, marching toward a future that was nothing but a beautifully wrapped lie.

I checked my watch.

Olivia POV

I stepped out of the gallery and onto the pavement.

It was raining again. Of course it was.

I remained on the sidewalk, letting the water soak through my clothes. I didn't bother looking for an umbrella.

I thought about Marcus and his attempt to offer me a job. The arrogance of it. He thought he could buy my presence. He thought I was merely a problem to be solved.

I raised my hand and hailed a cab.

"JFK," I repeated as I slid into the backseat.

The car sped through the wet streets. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon color against the glass.

I rolled down the window. The wind hit my face, cold and wet and smelling of ozone.

It felt like freedom.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the icy air.

"I am not a business asset," I whispered to the wind. "I am Olivia Hayes."

The skyline receded behind me. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the tower where Marcus lived—they all shrank until they were just toys in the distance, insignificant and small.

I closed the window.

The rest was a blur of motion. I arrived at the terminal, checked my bag, and swept through security.

Finally, I sat at the gate.

Boarding Group 1.

I stood up.

I walked down the jet bridge, leaving New York behind with every step.

I found my seat. Window.

The plane taxied. The engines roared to life.

We lifted off.

I looked down at the black void below. The rain lashed against the plastic window, weeping for a city I no longer called home.

I pressed my hand against the cool surface.

*Goodbye.*

The plane punched through the cloud layer.

Suddenly, the turbulence stopped. The rain stopped.

Above the clouds, the moon was shining. It was bright and clear and blindingly beautiful.

I leaned my head back against the seat.

I closed my eyes.

I was flying toward a new world. No Marcus. No Izzy. Just me.

And for the first time in years, the silence in my head wasn't lonely. It was peaceful.

I smiled.

The nightmare was over. The dream was just beginning.

Olivia POV

My life had become a series of mechanical motions.

Wake up. Breathe. Pack. Repeat.

I was numb. It wasn't a peaceful numbness; it was the kind you feel after a dentist injects novocaine into your gums—heavy, swollen, and fundamentally wrong.

Saturday.

My flight was on Saturday.

The date mocked me from the calendar on my phone. Saturday was the anniversary of our first date. We had eaten pizza on a rooftop in Brooklyn, and he had told me I tasted like oregano and starlight.

Now, I tasted like ash.

I sat on the floor of my living room, surrounded by the debris of a life I was dismantling. In my hands, I held a stack of Polaroids.

*Snip.*

The scissors cut through Marcus's smiling face.

*Snip.*

They cut through his arm around my waist.

*Snip.*

They cut through the way he used to look at me.

I didn't burn them. Fire was too dramatic, too passionate. I just shredded them. Cold, efficient destruction. The pieces fell into the trash bag like confetti for a funeral.

A knock on the door shattered the silence.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a traitorous rhythm. I knew that knock. Two sharp raps, a pause, one heavy thud.

I opened the door.

Marcus stood there.

He looked exhausted. His tie was loosened, his top button undone. He looked like the man I used to comfort with a glass of aged scotch and silence.

"What do you want?" I asked. My voice was flat. Dead.

He blinked, surprised by the lack of warmth. He stepped into the apartment without asking, his eyes scanning the boxes.

"You're really leaving," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Saturday," I said.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Izzy is driving me crazy with the wedding prep. The flowers. The seating charts. I just needed..." He looked at me, and for a second, I saw the old Marcus. "I needed a quiet place."

He was using me as a rest stop. A buffer zone before he went back to his real life.

"I'm not your quiet place anymore, Marcus," I said.

He frowned. "Don't be like that. You know you're the only one who gets me."

"I get you," I said. "That's the problem."

I took a breath. I needed to sever the last thread. I needed to see if there was even a microscopic atom of care left in him.

"My flight is on Saturday morning," I said. "Drive me to the airport. One last time. For closure."

He checked his watch. The movement was automatic, dismissive.

"Saturday? I can't. The florist is coming to the penthouse at ten. Izzy needs me there."

He didn't even hesitate. He didn't even pretend to check his schedule. Flowers were more important than my departure.

"Right," I said. The word tasted like bile. "Flowers."

"I'll send my driver," he said, turning back to the door. "Carl will take you. He's reliable."

"I don't need Carl," I whispered.

"I have to go," he said. "I just wanted to see if you were... okay."

"I'm fantastic," I lied.

He nodded, relieved he didn't have to dig deeper. He walked out.

The door clicked shut.

The sound broke me.

I slid down the wall, my hands gripping my hair. The tears came hot and fast, scalding my cheeks. He chose flowers. He chose a seating chart over saying goodbye to me.

I saw a piece of paper sticking out from under the sofa. I pulled it out.

It was a draft. A letter he had started writing to me a year ago, back when we were happy.

*My dearest Olivia, I can't imagine a future without—*

The sentence ended there. He hadn't finished it. He couldn't imagine a future without me, so he went out and bought a future with someone else.

I ripped the paper in half. Then quarters. Then eighths.

I stood up, needing to get this trash out of my house, out of my life. I grabbed the bag of shredded photos.

I turned too fast. My sock caught on the edge of a rug.

I fell forward.

The door opened.

Marcus. He had come back. Maybe he forgot his phone. Maybe he forgot his conscience.

I crashed right into him.

His arms went around me instinctively to steady me. My chest pressed against his. His scent—sandalwood and betrayal—filled my nose.

For a second, it felt like coming home.

Then I remembered he belonged to Izzy.

I tried to push him away, panic rising in my throat like bile.

"Let go," I gasped.

But he didn't. Instead, he held on tighter.