"Shut up," I muttered.

My hand slammed down on the phone, killing the blaring alarm. Silence flooded the bedroom. I didn't jump out of bed. I didn't rush to the closet to grab my apron.

I threw off the duvet, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. I walked straight to the corner desk. I pulled a small brass key from my robe pocket and slid it into the lock of the bottom drawer. The metal tracks squeaked as I pulled it open.

I pushed aside the thick bank receipt. The bundle of toilet paper sat exactly where I left it last night. I peeled back the top layer of tissue.

Two pink lines.

Still there. Still real.

I locked the drawer and walked down the hall to the kitchen. The apartment felt hollow. For fifteen years, this exact hour meant chopping vegetables, marinating meat, and packing a four-compartment bento box.

Today, the cutting board remained spotless.

I pulled a small non-stick skillet from the cabinet and set it on the burner. I cracked a single egg against the rim. The yolk sizzled in the hot oil, popping and sputtering. I grabbed a spatula, watching the egg whites crisp at the edges.

I was cooking for one.

My phone vibrated violently against the granite countertop. It knocked into the glass salt shaker, sending a sharp clinking noise through the quiet kitchen.

Desmond’s name flashed across the bright screen.

I flipped the egg. I let the phone buzz four more times before swiping the green icon.

"What do you want, Desmond?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

"When are you coming down to the notary office?" he demanded. His voice echoed through the speaker, sharp and impatient.

I turned the stove dial down. "For what?"

"The property transfer, Lydia. Don't play games with me."

"I'm not playing games," I replied. "I'm asking why you think I owe you a signature."

Paper rustled in the background of his call. "Because the factory needs capital this quarter. I need you to sign over the deed to your apartment so I can restructure that four hundred and eighty thousand dollar mortgage."

My spatula froze against the Teflon pan.

Not a single word about Caleb. Not a question about how his fifteen-year-old son slept on his first night in a new house. He only cared about the money.

"You want me to hand over my house," I stated.

"We agreed on a clean break," Desmond snapped. "The factory is in my name, but that loan is tied to your place. Vivian found a buyer for the apartment. Just come down and sign the papers so I can clear the books."

I stared at the sizzling egg. Nine years ago, I sat in a freezing bank office next to him. The loan manager had peered over his wire-rimmed glasses, tapping his pen against the appraisal form.

"Is your husband's factory really worth this risk, Mrs. Carrington?" the manager had asked.

"It is," I had replied, signing away my only safety net to save his sinking business.

I blinked away the memory. "Did you even check on Caleb this morning?" I asked.

Desmond groaned loudly. "Are we really doing this right now? Caleb is fine. Vivian took him to get imported bagels. Are you coming to the notary or do I need my lawyer to subpoena you?"

"Have your lawyer try," I said.

"Lydia, stop being a stubborn—"

I tapped the red button. The call ended. I pressed the information icon next to his contact name and hit block.

I slid the fried egg onto a ceramic plate. I carried my breakfast to the small dining table and sat down. The edges of the egg were crisp and golden. I cut a piece with the side of my fork and took a bite.

It tasted like freedom.

Through the kitchen window, the early morning sun illuminated the neighborhood across the street. Vivian lived in that upscale townhouse complex. Yesterday afternoon, my neighbor Mrs. Gable had caught me by the mailboxes.

"Vivian is already mailing out wedding invitations," Mrs. Gable had whispered, leaning over her canvas grocery bags. "She handed me a box of imported truffles. Can you believe the nerve of that woman?"

I chewed my food slowly, watching a delivery truck idle near Vivian's security gate. Let her have the cheating husband. Let her pay for Caleb's limited-edition sneakers and imported bagels. She won the battle, but she inherited a sinking ship. Desmond’s factory was drowning in debt, and I was no longer the anchor keeping him afloat.

My left hand drifted down, resting flat against my lower abdomen. The fabric of my silk robe felt cool against my skin.

Two months.

"It's just you and me," I whispered to the empty kitchen.

I picked up my phone again. I opened the clock app. The 5:00 AM alarm stared back at me, a relentless tyrant that had dictated my life for over a decade. I tapped the screen, scrolling the hour wheel down.

Six.

Seven.

I hit save. Five in the morning belonged to no one now.

I finished the last bite of my egg. I stood up, carrying the empty plate to the sink. The water ran cold over my fingers as I rinsed the ceramic.

Desmond thought he could take my son, betray our marriage, and still demand the very roof over my head. He thought I would quietly fade into the background, a defeated woman holding a cold lunchbox outside a courtroom.

I dried my hands on a cotton dish towel. I picked up my phone, navigated to my blocked list, and unblocked his number.

I dialed. He picked up on the first ring.

"Are you finally done throwing a tantrum?" Desmond demanded.

"I'm completely done," I said.

"Good. The notary closes at five."

"I bought that apartment before we ever met," I said. My voice dropped to a low, even pitch. "And I paid off that four hundred and eighty thousand dollar loan for you with my own sweat."

"Lydia, what are you talking about—"

"From now on, whatever you owe me, principal and interest, I will collect it myself."

I ended the call before he could utter another syllable. I tossed the phone onto the table. The screen lit up again, not with a call, but with an email notification.

Grace had just forwarded the first due diligence list for our new venture capital acquisition.

I tapped the attachment, the glowing document illuminating the dark kitchen counter.