Amirah Holland POV:

His question hung in the air, sharp and accusatory, making my heart leap into my throat. Panic flared, hot and quick. He had seen something. Or suspected. My mind raced, trying to conjure a plausible lie, but my thoughts were a jumbled mess. I tightened my grip on the glass of tea, the warmth a strange contrast to the sudden chill that enveloped me.

"Just... school stuff," I mumbled, my voice barely a whisper, trying to keep my expression neutral. The lie tasted like ash in my mouth.

He took another step closer, his dark eyes intense, pinning me in place. He wasn't fooled. His gaze flickered to the pillow, then back to my face, a silent demand for the truth. He had always been able to read me, to see through my flimsy defenses, but I refused to let him control this last, fragile shred of my privacy. "It's nothing, Kendrick. Just a photo of one of the professors I might be working with." The partial truth was a small victory, a tiny act of rebellion.

He scrutinized me for a long moment, his gaze unwavering, as if searching for a hidden defect. The air grew thick with unspoken tension. I braced myself for his disapproval, his dismissal, his inevitable attempt to control.

Then, his voice, low and dangerous, finally broke the silence. "I don't want you making new 'friends,' Amirah. Especially not academic colleagues. Focus on your studies, on the work. Keep your distance from others." It wasn't a suggestion. It was a cold, unequivocal command, delivered with all the authority of a judge handing down a sentence.

I stared at him, a fresh wave of anger rising within me. My life. My choices. He had rejected my love, orchestrated my humiliation, and now he wanted to dictate my friendships? The audacity of it burned. He wanted me to be a solitary, emotionless automaton, solely focused on his expectations.

But I simply nodded, a tight, forced smile plastered on my face. "Of course, Kendrick. Understood." My voice was as flat as his. There was no point in arguing, no point in fighting. Not yet.

He seemed satisfied with my compliant response. He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Make sure you drink that tea. And get some rest. You look tired." The words were almost solicitous, a strange echo of concern, but they rang hollow.

As soon as the door clicked shut, I set the glass of 'Chrissy's special brew' on the bedside table, untouched. Its cloying sweetness, still warm, seemed to mock me. I couldn't bring myself to drink it. The idea of him trying to control even my choice of beverage, through his fiancée no less, was infuriating.

The next morning, the penthouse was eerily quiet. I woke up with a dull ache behind my eyes, a lingering sense of exhaustion. I dressed quickly, determined to finalize my application for Boston, to escape this gilded cage.

Kendrick and Chrissy were nowhere to be found. A faint sense of relief washed over me. At least I wouldn't have to endure their saccharine domesticity over breakfast. I busied myself, gathering my paperwork for Professor Vance, a small but significant step towards my freedom.

Out of sheer, morbid curiosity, I pulled out my phone and checked Chrissy's social media. My fingers trembled slightly as I navigated to her profile. A fresh wave of images flooded the screen. Chrissy, radiant and laughing, on a sun-drenched beach. Kendrick beside her, his arm around her waist, a genuine, joyful smile on his face. The caption read: "Spontaneous romantic getaway! So glad my darling Kendrick swept me away for a few days before the wedding prep gets too intense! #EngagedLife #LoveMyKendrick."

My breath hitched. They were on a trip. While I was struggling to put my life back together, while I was dealing with the aftermath of his cruel charade, they were off on a romantic retreat. His tenderness, that rare, soft expression I'd glimpsed on his face, was on full display for Chrissy, for the world. It was a painful echo of the dreams I once had, of the romantic gestures I secretly longed for from him.

He had promised me a celebration once, a special trip for my graduation. A trip that never materialized. Now, he was spontaneously whisking Chrissy away, showering her with the very experiences I had once fantasized about. The realization hit me anew, a fresh wave of grief. I was nothing. She was everything.

I scrolled past the smiling faces, the idyllic scenery, a cold detachment settling over me. The images, once capable of tearing my heart to shreds, now barely registered. There was nothing left to break. My heart felt like a barren landscape, stripped bare of all emotion.

I made my way to school, my steps light, fueled by a renewed sense of purpose. Professor Vance met me with a warm smile. "Amirah, the MIT department head just confirmed your acceptance! You start next month." Her words were a balm, a lifeline, a promise of a future untainted by Kendrick's shadow.

"Thank you, Professor," I said, a genuine smile finally touching my lips. "Thank you so much." I had made it. I was finally free. I told her I would leave in two weeks, giving myself just enough time to tie up loose ends. I knew I needed to make a clean break, to leave New York with nothing holding me back. I told myself it was for a better education, a new challenge, a fresh start. But deep down, I knew it was an escape. An escape from him, from Chrissy, from the phantom pain of a love that never was.

On my way back to the penthouse, the sky opened up. Rain lashed down, cold and relentless, mirroring the storm inside me. I pulled my thin jacket tighter, huddling against the sudden chill. I remembered a similar downpour years ago, when I was sixteen. I'd been caught in a sudden storm, ill-prepared, and Kendrick had rushed to my rescue, his large umbrella shielding me, his warm hand on my back. He had laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and I had felt safe, cherished, loved.

Now, I was alone. The memory, once comforting, now felt like a cruel taunt. The rain soaked through my clothes, chilling me to the bone. My head spun, a dull ache intensifying behind my eyes. My legs felt weak, my body trembling with more than just the cold.

Suddenly, the world tilted. My vision blurred, and the ground rushed up to meet me. I tried to catch myself, but my legs gave out completely. I collapsed onto the wet pavement, the cold seeping into my bones. A wave of nausea washed over me, and everything went black.

I woke up to the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. The fluorescent lights hummed, harsh and unyielding. A nurse, a kind-faced woman with tired eyes, was checking my IV drip. "You're awake," she said softly. "You passed out in the rain. Severe dehydration, exhaustion, and a nasty fever. You've been out for a day."

A day. Kendrick and Chrissy were on their romantic getaway, completely oblivious. I was alone, again. The nurse gave me a sympathetic look. "We need to contact your family. Who should we call?"

My fingers fumbled for my phone, my mind instinctively going to the one person who was supposed to be there. Kendrick. He was my guardian. My family. Even after everything, the habit was deeply ingrained. I knew he was busy, always busy, but surely he would want to know. He always answered my calls, even the ones meant to provoke him. The desperate attempts to reach him, the foolish hope that he would care, were a familiar, painful dance.

I dialed his number, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. A moment of silence, then a robotic voice: "The number you have dialed is currently unavailable." My blood ran cold. His phone was off. He was unreachable.

I tried again, and again, a desperate mantra of redialing, each failed attempt a fresh stab of pain. Had he blocked me? Or was he truly so engrossed in Chrissy that he turned off his phone? The thought was a crushing blow. I needed him. Just once. Just to know someone cared.

The nurse returned, her expression gentle but firm. "Honey, have you reached anyone? We need a family contact for your release."

I shook my head, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping my lips. "He's... busy," I managed, the lie tasting like ash. "He's a lawyer. Very important. And," I added, the words catching in my throat, "he's on a trip with his fiancée." The words stung, a harsh reminder of my isolation.

I remembered the countless times he' d dropped everything for a client, for a court case, for a business deal. But for me? I was just a problem to be delegated, an inconvenience to be managed. The memory of his past concern, the way he'd rushed to my side when I was younger, felt like a distant dream. I was alone, truly alone. And for the first time, I knew with chilling certainty that he wouldn't come. I finally understood that I was not his concern. Not anymore. I wouldn't burden him again.

Amirah Holland POV:

I spent three agonizing days in that hospital bed, completely alone. No calls, no messages, no visitors. Just the rhythmic beeping of machines and the occasional polite inquiry from a nurse. It was a stark, brutal confirmation of my utter insignificance in Kendrick's life. He hadn't even noticed I was gone.

When I was finally discharged, my body still weak and aching, I made my way back to the penthouse. The glass and steel felt heavier, colder, than ever before. As I pushed open the front door, a cacophony of laughter and festive chatter spilled out from the living room. My heart, a bruised and battered thing, clenched.

Kendrick and Chrissy were there, surrounded by ribbons and tissue paper, their faces flushed with excitement. They were decorating, their movements playful and intimate. Chrissy held up a shimmering ornament, giggling, while Kendrick adjusted a string of fairy lights. Their domestic bliss felt like a punch to the gut, a vibrant, mocking contrast to my desolate solitude.

I hesitated in the doorway, a phantom, unseen and unheard. I wanted to turn around, to run, but my legs felt like lead.

Chrissy, catching a glimpse of me, paused, her bright smile fixed in place. "Oh, Amirah! You're back! Where did you run off to, sweetie? We barely noticed you were gone." Her words, delivered with a forced cheerfulness, were a thinly veiled jab, a reminder of my invisibility.

I stared at her, my throat tight. I couldn't bring myself to speak, to explain the hospital, the fever, the crushing loneliness. What was the point? She wouldn't understand, and Kendrick certainly wouldn't care.

Kendrick, seeing me, finally detached himself from Chrissy. He walked towards me, a small, wrapped box in his hand. "Amirah," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost apologetic. "I got you something. For your birthday." He held out the gift, a small, elegant box.

My birthday. I had completely forgotten. The thought was a jarring reminder of how utterly lost I'd become. I took the box, my fingers brushing against his, a fleeting contact that sent a strange shiver down my arm. It was a delicate, silver necklace, intricate and beautiful. It was something Chrissy would wear. Something sleek and modern, completely unlike the worn, sentimental jewelry I cherished. It was a gift for someone he didn't truly know.

"Thank you, Kendrick," I murmured, forcing a polite smile. I clutched the box, a hollow ache spreading through my chest. "I'll just... put this in my room." I turned to escape, desperate for the solitude of the guest room, for a moment to process this fresh wave of emptiness.

But as I turned, his hand shot out, firm and unyielding, gripping my wrist. My backpack slipped from my shoulder, landing with a soft thud. The sudden contact made me flinch, a jolt of alarm running through me. His grip was tight, possessive, a stark contrast to the gentle gesture of the gift.

"Amirah," he said, his voice low, his eyes narrowing slightly, "where have you been?" His gaze dropped to my hand, where the IV needle pricks and faint bruises were still visible, stark against my pale skin.

My breath hitched. My secret was out. I pulled my wrist back gently, but he held firm. I met his gaze, my own eyes, I knew, blank and devoid of emotion. "I was in the hospital," I stated, my voice flat, almost monotonous. "I had a fever, passed out in the rain. Dehydration, exhaustion." The words were devoid of self-pity, just facts.

His brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise, then something akin to concern in his eyes. A flash of the old Kendrick, the one who would have rushed to my side. "The hospital? Why didn't you call me? Or Chrissy?" His voice held a hint of genuine confusion, almost irritation.

A bitter laugh escaped me. He still didn't get it. Chrissy. Chrissy, who had sabotaged my calls. The realization was a cold, hard truth. She had done this. Purposely. To ensure I was truly alone. "I tried," I said, my voice rising slightly, a hint of the old anger sparking. "I called you. Repeatedly. At least a dozen times. But your phone was off. And then it said the number was unavailable."

Chrissy, who had been hovering nervously, quickly stepped forward, her hand on Kendrick's arm. "Oh, darling! I'm so, so sorry! My phone must have died on the trip, and then I forgot to mention it to you. I thought you'd want to be completely disconnected while we were away. You know, a true escape. I never meant for Amirah to be... unreachable." Her eyes fluttered, a picture of innocent regret.

Kendrick looked from Chrissy to me, then back to Chrissy. He sighed, a weariness settling over his features. "It's alright, Chrissy. Next time, Amirah, just text me. Or email. My phone is often off for client meetings. You know that." His words were a dismissal, his acceptance of Chrissy's flimsy excuse a clear statement of where his loyalties lay.

My chest tightened, a fresh wave of despair washing over me. He chose to believe her. Always her. I said nothing, simply nodding, my face a mask of compliance. The gesture was a bitter surrender.

I turned and walked away, my steps measured, deliberate. I just needed to be alone. I needed to escape the suffocating weight of their intertwined lives, their lies, their casual cruelty.

A knock. Soft, hesitant. I looked up from the book I wasn't reading. Kendrick stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the warm light of the hallway. He looked… troubled. His usual composure seemed to have cracked, just slightly.

"Chrissy feels terrible," he said, his voice lower than usual. "She didn't realize her phone would block your calls. She wanted me to tell you how truly sorry she is."

A humorless laugh escaped me. "Sorry? For what, Kendrick? For ensuring I spent three days alone in a hospital, believing I had no one? Or for making sure you couldn't be bothered by a 'childish problem' like me?" My voice was sharp, laced with a bitterness I hadn't known I still possessed.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. His eyes, usually unreadable, now held a flicker of something close to anger. "Amirah, that's enough. She's genuinely upset."

"Genuinely upset?" I challenged. "Or genuinely worried her little charade would be exposed?" I watched his face closely, searching for a crack in his facade.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, a rare sign of agitation. "She moved my work phone to the other room. She thought it was helping me 'unwind' from work. It was a mistake. A genuine oversight." He rarely explained himself, rarely justified his actions. This was… new. Unsettling.

My mind reeled. He was actually explaining. For the first time in months, he was offering a reason, a defense, for something that had gone wrong. It was a sliver of contact, a hint of the old connection, and it confused me more than his coldness.

But then, the flicker of agitation hardened into something more familiar. "You're being immature, Amirah. This is exactly what I meant by 'growing up.' You need to stop making everything about yourself."

The words, so familiar, so cutting, extinguished the fragile spark of hope. I looked at him, truly looked, and something inside me finally went numb. He would never see me. Never understand. He would always twist my pain into immaturity, my need into dependency. He would always prioritize his convenience, his version of reality. My anger, my love, my pain-they were all just noise to him.

"I'm not being immature, Kendrick," I said, my voice flat, hollow. "And I'm not making everything about myself. I'm just telling you the truth." The truth felt like a heavy weight, settling deep within me. My heart was not just broken; it was numb. The last remnants of my love for him, the desperation, the yearning, slowly dissolved into a quiet, profound emptiness. He was just a man. A man who had once been my world, but was now a stranger.

He stared at me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He clearly didn't believe me, didn't understand this new, detached version of me. "Fine," he finally said, his voice rough. "If you insist on being ungrateful... I was going to offer to take you to that little cafe you always liked, the one with the matcha lattes. For your birthday. Like old times."

A distant memory, a pang of longing for a past that no longer existed, stirred within me. He was offering a ghost of a gesture, a memory I no longer cherished. But the numbness held fast. "No, thank you," I said, my voice steady. "I'm quite alright. And I'm not ungrateful, Kendrick. I just... I don't need you to buy me off anymore. I'm grown up now."

His face tightened. I could see the anger warring with something else, something I couldn't quite decipher. "You're not a child anymore, Amirah." His words were an accusation, a veiled threat. "You don't need to be punished."

"No," I agreed, a small, sad smile touching my lips. "I don't. And I don't need to be rescued, either." I had to break free. Completely.

The semester finally ended, a blur of exams and final projects. I spent every waking hour at the library, avoiding the penthouse, avoiding Chrissy's triumphant smiles and Kendrick's distant gaze. I rarely went home, opting instead for long nights at my friend' s dorm, claiming study groups or late-night research. The less I saw of them, the easier it was to breathe, to maintain the fragile peace I had found in my numbness. My interactions with Kendrick and Chrissy, when they happened, were perfectly polite, detached, almost formal. I was a guest, a polite stranger, and the charade felt dangerously close to real.

Finally, all my academic obligations were met. My papers submitted, my grades secured, my acceptance to MIT confirmed. My escape plan was in motion. It was time. Time to say goodbye. Not with tears, not with anger, but with a quiet dignity I finally felt I had earned.

I walked into the living room, my heart a dull thud against my ribs. Only Chrissy was there, lounging on the new cream sofa, a sketchbook in her lap. Kendrick was gone. My shoulders slumped slightly. I had wanted to tell him one last time, to sever the ties face-to-face.

Chrissy looked up, her eyes narrowing. Her smile, usually so practiced, faltered slightly. "What do you want, Amirah? Kendrick's not here. And I'm busy." Her voice was sharp, cutting. All pretense of politeness was gone.

My jaw tightened. "I was just looking for Kendrick," I said, turning to leave. I didn't need this. Not now.

But Chrissy was faster. She sprang up, grabbing my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "Oh no, you don't. Not before we have a little chat, you pathetic little leech." Her voice was a furious hiss, her face contorted with rage. "Still clinging on, aren't you? After everything? Do you really think he'd ever choose you? A broken little girl who can't even take care of herself?" She spat the words at me, her eyes burning with a desperate fury. She wanted a reaction. She wanted to shatter my composure.

But the numbness held. "My apologies, Ms. Castro," I said, my voice soft, almost bored. "It seems I've overestimated your decorum. I thought you had some class, some breeding. My mistake."

Her eyes widened, a flash of surprise, then something cold and calculating. I heard the distinct click of the front door, the sound of Kendrick's return. Chrissy's face changed instantly. Her eyes welled up, her lips trembled, and then, with a sharp, unexpected movement, she dragged her perfectly manicured fingernails across her own arm, leaving four thin, red lines.

"Oh, Kendrick!" she wailed, her voice thick with sudden, theatrical tears, clutching her arm. "She attacked me! Amirah, she just... she just snapped!"

Kendrick stood in the doorway, his briefcase in hand, his face a mask of shock and anger. He dropped the case with a thud, rushing to Chrissy's side, his arm encircling her. He glared at me, his eyes cold, accusatory. "Amirah," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "what have you done?" He looked at Chrissy's arm, then back at me, his gaze hardening. "I told you to be sensible. I told you not to cause trouble."

A bitter laugh bubbled up from my throat. This was it. The final act of his cruel play. I met his gaze, my eyes shining with a defiance born of utter despair. "Oh, yes, Kendrick. I did it. I snapped. I attacked your precious Chrissy. Are you happy now? Is this finally enough to get rid of me? Because if it is, then fine. Good. You win." I spread my hands wide, a gesture of surrender and challenge. "Now, what are you going to do? Send me to jail? Disown me? Or do you finally admit that you never cared about anything but yourself?"

Amirah Holland POV:

Kendrick' s face, usually so composed, contorted with a mixture of anger and something I couldn't quite decipher. He held Chrissy tighter, his gaze burning into me. "Amirah, stop this. You're being irrational." He cut me off, his voice sharp, dismissive. "You are not family. You are my ward. And my fiancée, Chrissy, deserves respect in her home." His words, a brutal reiteration of my status, were like a fresh wound.

"This is her home now," he stated, his voice cold and final. "You need to leave."

My jaw clenched, a fresh wave of despair washing over me. I had expected this, prepared for it, but the words still landed like a physical blow. "Leave?" I repeated, my voice hollow. "Where exactly do you suggest I go, Kendrick?" The question was laced with a bitterness that surprised even myself.

He sighed, a weary exhalation. "I've already arranged for you. There's an apartment in the East Village. It's fully furnished, all expenses paid. You can live there while you finish your degree." He spoke as if he were discussing a business transaction, not my entire future.

East Village. My heart sank. It was an hour away by subway, a world apart from the Upper East Side penthouse. His meticulous planning, his efficient removal of me from his life, sent a chill down my spine. The distance wasn't just geographical; it was emotional, a clear demarcation of his desire for separation.

"When did you get this apartment, Kendrick?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. A terrible suspicion began to form in my mind.

He hesitated, his gaze flickering away from mine. "It was... a while ago. A contingency plan. Just in case you ever needed your own space." The words were carefully chosen, but the underlying truth screamed at me.

A contingency plan. Long before Chrissy, long before my confession, he had already envisioned a future without me. He had been planning my exit, meticulously arranging my removal from his life, even as I foolishly clung to the hope of his love. The realization was a gut punch, leaving me breathless and reeling. He had been preparing for this, for my departure, for years. My entire existence in his home had been temporary, a placeholder.

My vision blurred, the room swimming before my eyes. My stomach churned, a cold knot of nausea forming deep within. The pain was so profound, so absolute, it stole my breath. I wanted to scream, to lash out, but my body felt heavy, my limbs numb. I simply nodded, a silent, devastated acceptance.

"And when do you want me to leave?" I asked, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I just wanted this agonizing charade to be over.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice firm, unyielding. "First thing in the morning. I'll have a car take you."

"Fine," I replied, the single word a quiet surrender. I turned and walked away, my shoulders rigid, my head held high. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Upstairs, in the guest room, I moved like a zombie, methodically packing the few belongings I had. My old teddy bear, a gift from my father. A worn copy of my favorite novel, its pages dog-eared and stained. A faded photograph of my dad and Kendrick, laughing, their arms slung around each other's shoulders, taken years ago. Each item was a relic of a past that felt increasingly distant, a life that was now irrevocably gone.

Kendrick had given me that photo, tucked it into my bag on my first day at his penthouse. "He was my best friend, Amirah," he'd said, his voice soft. "And now, I'm here for you." That photo, that comforting gesture, had become a symbol of our impossible bond, a constant reminder of the love I craved and the duty he offered. Now, it felt like a cruel taunt.

I carefully placed the photo into a box, then buried it under a pile of clothes. I had to bury the memories too. All of them. Every shred of hope, every lingering thread of affection. I had to seal them away, deep in the darkest corners of my heart, where they could no longer hurt me.

My phone buzzed. A text message from Professor Vance. "Amirah, your flight to Boston is booked for Wednesday morning. Your dorm key has been sent to your new address. Congratulations again!"

Wednesday morning. Two days from now. My escape was real. I looked at the packed suitcase leaning against the wall, a symbol of my new, terrifying freedom. It was happening. I was leaving. For good.

The next morning, the air in the penthouse was thick with a palpable tension. I dragged my small suitcase down the grand staircase, its wheels rumbling softly on the marble. Kendrick and Chrissy stood in the living room, their faces stiff, their bodies radiating a silent hostility.

Chrissy forced a smile. "Oh, Amirah, darling! Let me give you a ride. It's the least I can do." Her voice was sickly sweet, a thin veil over her triumphant glee. She wanted to savor my departure, to ensure I knew she had won.

"No, thank you, Ms. Castro," I replied, my voice cool and even. "I've arranged for my own transportation." I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

But Kendrick stepped forward, taking the suitcase from my hand. His fingers brushed mine, a fleeting contact that sent a strange jolt through me. "I'll take you, Amirah," he said, his voice flat, leaving no room for argument.

I nodded, a silent concession. What was the point of fighting? I was leaving. That was all that mattered.

The drive was silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of the engine. Kendrick kept his eyes on the road, his jaw tight. After a few minutes, he finally spoke, his voice surprisingly gentle. "The East Village apartment is well-situated. Close to the university. And safe."

I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur past. His words, meant to reassure, felt hollow. Safe. Yes, but empty. I offered no response.

He sighed, a faint exhalation of frustration. "Amirah, I want you to know, the apartment… it wasn't meant to hurt you. It was always meant to be a place for you, when you were ready for independence." He sounded almost vulnerable, almost sincere.

I remained silent. I had no energy left for his carefully constructed explanations, his attempts to soften the blow. His words were just noise, unable to penetrate the thick wall of my indifference.

"You can always come back to visit," he continued, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "For holidays. For special occasions. My door is always open."

A bitter memory, a phantom pain, stirred within me. How many times had I yearned for those words in the past? How many times had I clung to his casual invitations, hoping for more? But that naive, desperate girl was gone. I was numb. My heart was a barren landscape.

"Thank you, Kendrick," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was a practiced politeness, a detached acceptance.

He seemed to relax a fraction, believing he had diffused the tension. He reached for the dashboard, turning on the radio. A familiar melody filled the car, a soft, melancholic indie song I used to love. He remembered. The thought was a sharp pang, a reminder of the endless contradictions of the man beside me.

We arrived at the East Village apartment building, a charming brownstone nestled on a quiet street. He killed the engine, plunging us into a heavy silence. He didn't move, just sat there, his hands on the steering wheel.

"I can take it from here, Kendrick," I said, my voice firm. I gathered my small handbag, preparing to open the door.

He turned to me, his eyes searching mine. "Amirah," he began, his voice tinged with something I couldn't place. "You're... grown up." He sounded almost surprised, as if seeing me for the first time.

I met his gaze, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "Yes, Kendrick. I am." My voice was steady, confident.

He held my gaze, then, almost imperceptibly, he smiled. A small, sad smile. "Your birthday is next week. I'll come visit. We'll celebrate properly, just the two of us." It was a promise, a desperate attempt to cling to a connection that was already severed.

"Okay," I said, the single word a polite, noncommittal acceptance. I knew I wouldn't be there. He would arrive to an empty apartment, just as I had arrived to an empty home for so long.

He watched me get out, his eyes following me as I walked towards the entrance. He waited until I was inside, until the heavy door clicked shut behind me. I heard his engine start, then the soft rumble of his car driving away.

The moment his car was out of sight, I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. "Professor Vance," I texted, my heart pounding with a fierce, exhilarating sense of freedom. "Change of plans. I' m coming now. To Boston."