Chapter 4

As soon as I pressed “send” on my phone, I heaved myself out of bed, each movement sluggish and reluctant. My blankets slipped away, and I stumbled toward the dresser, grabbing a few clothes and tossing them onto the bed. The pale morning light filtering through the curtains told me I’d slept past sunrise, but I hardly noticed. Every muscle in my body felt heavy with resignation. Still half-asleep, I yanked open the closet door and began pulling hangers free: a light sweater, some blouses, a pair of jeans. With deliberate slowness, I folded each item and dropped it into the open suitcase at my feet, its zipper yawning as I coaxed my things inside. It was only after I’d packed the last pair of socks that I remembered why I was doing this: Sienna’s invitation to Boston, and my own desperate need to escape the painful aftermath of my breakup.

Once the suitcase clicked shut, I trudged into the parlor. The room smelled faintly of Clara’s lavender air freshener, and her crochet blanket lay folded on the back of the sofa. She was curled up in her favorite armchair, reading a novel under the warm lamplight. I swallowed and dropped onto the couch opposite her. Our eyes met, and I blurted out, “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

Clara set her book aside, her gaze soft but concerned. “To D.C.?” she asked.

I nodded, feeling my throat tighten. I’d half-expected her to beg me to stay, to question my decision, but instead she simply offered, “If you think it will help you clear your head, go. I understand.”

Her words were gentle but firm. I’d braced myself for her to plead, to guilt me into staying, but she surprised me by supporting my choice. I lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I needed some fresh air, some distance,” I admitted. “I thought you’d at least try to convince me to stay.”

She shook her head. “You’ve been through enough,” she said. “You deserve a break.” Relief and guilt washed over me in equal measure. I managed a small, grateful smile.

That night, I packed everything I could into two sturdy boxes and pulled them downstairs. Clara wasn’t in the kitchen when I left; she must have gone to bed early. On the counter, I left a short handwritten note: Thanks for letting me crash here. I’ll catch up when I’m back. Love, M. I sealed it and tucked it under a vase of flowers, hoping it would brighten her morning.

In the glow of my laptop screen the night before, I’d noticed Sienna had already booked my flight. The confirmation email sat in my inbox, subject line reading: “Your Ticket to D.C. – See you soon!” I stared at it for a moment, thinking about how she must already know I had nowhere left to hide or excuses left to make for staying in San Francisco. Once I accepted that reality, I felt a strange thrill of freedom.

Early the next morning, I hauled my two boxes and the suitcase down the front steps, slinging a strap over my shoulder. I flagged a taxi on the street and climbed into the backseat. The driver nodded in greeting, his radio murmuring through the vents. I sat there, absentmindedly watching buildings pass in a blur, my mind drifting back over the last two nights.

I remembered the other woman I’d seen with Julian, perched atop him in that dimly lit room. Her back was arching gracefully, muscles rippling under her skin. She moved with such confidence, such practiced ease, that I realized she was a true professional. I’d been foolish enough to scour the internet for hours, poring over explicit videos on Google just to understand what I’d witnessed. In those clips, the women were flexible and deliberate, their waists swaying in precise time. It was no different from what I’d seen in Julian’s apartment. Suddenly, I felt pangs of jealousy and humiliation all at once. How humiliating it was to realize he’d made me study pornography just to feel adequate. My cheeks warmed with fresh shame.

I let out a long, shuddering sigh and slumped further into the seat. I tried to steady my breathing, repeating a mantra in my head: People break up. Heartache is part of life. Relationships end. Yet the ironic pain of it all was that I had once believed a man from a wealthy family like Julian’s would cherish me above everything else. I’d been naïve, convinced that love could override everything. Now I was left with nothing but questions and a hollow ache in my chest.

The soft beep of the taxi’s meter pulled me back to the present. “We’re here, ma’am,” the driver said, his voice gentle through the rearview mirror. His tone was almost apologetic, as if he understood I’d been lost in sorrow. I blinked and realized we were already at SFO.

“Oh!” I murmured, hastily gathering my belongings. I pulled the boxes from the back seat, fumbling with the straps. “Sorry,” I added, offering the driver a quick apology as I set one box on the pavement.

“No problem,” he said, smiling kindly. “You seemed upset. Whatever happened, don’t let him bring you down.”

I froze, my grip on the box tightening. He had no way of knowing my story—yet he’d seen the sadness etched on my face. My mouth fell open in shocked surprise. “You’re too pretty to be walking around San Francisco with tears in your eyes,” he continued, and something in his words cracked the dam inside me. Tears blurred my vision. I scrubbed at my cheeks, embarrassed by my foolish, uncontrolled tears.

“I… thank you,” I managed to choke out, pressing a fingertip to my damp cheek as I carried my bags toward the terminal. One foot in front of the other, I tried to collect myself. How does one even begin to get over heartbreak? I wondered. Is it possible to simply flip a switch and feel whole again?

As I stepped through the automatic doors of the airport, I inhaled, determined to look composed. My plan was straightforward: arrive in D.C., see Sienna, maybe visit museums, and do whatever it took to distract myself. My heart still throbbed, but I told myself it would dull with time. Experience, after all, does pay off eventually.

But I never got that far. As I wheeled my suitcase forward, a line of enormous men in black suits suddenly formed a wall between me and the entrance. They stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed over their chests, earpieces in place, faces so stoic they could have been carved from stone. My breath caught in my throat.

Panic flared through me. What on earth was happening? I offered them a tentative “Hi,” flashing a nervous smile, but they said nothing, their faces as unreadable as statues. My pulse pounded as I gripped the suitcase handle, my knuckles whitening. I tried to think: Who are these men? What do they want? My mind raced.

Before I could figure out an escape route, the agents calmly closed in on me, forming an unbreakable circle. My heart slammed against my ribs as their quiet, measured steps echoed on the tiled floor. Then one of them spoke into his collar microphone in a low voice. “Boss, we found her. She’s trying to leave the city.”

A fresh wave of fear swept over me. Hired assassins? Personal bodyguards? Why would someone want to stop me from flying to D.C.? I pressed back against the invisible barrier, my breath coming in short gasps. Then my mind honed in on one name: Julian. No—he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

My chest tightened with rage and disgust. How dare he try to trap me here after what he’d done? And how had he learned about my flight? Had he forced Clara to tell him? My heart ached for my friend, caught in the crossfire of his wealth and power. I felt like an ant caught in the feet of giants.

I opened my mouth to yell at them, “Get out of my way!” but the words wouldn’t come. My voice felt tiny, drowned by the looming threat. Tears stung my eyes again as I realized how vulnerable I was. Why did everything always go wrong for me?

Then, suddenly, a calm, authoritative voice rang out. “Let her go.” The agents stiffened, then parted silently to reveal the man who had spoken. My breath hitched. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a black suit that fit him perfectly. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top—three buttons undone—offering a glimpse of his broad, chiseled chest. And his eyes, a cool, commanding gray, locked onto mine.

My entire body froze. The man from the other night. The stranger who’d claimed me in a haze of moonlight and candle flicker, then vanished without a trace. I’d thought I’d never see him again. Yet here he stood, smirking down at me as though this moment had been planned from the start.

His deep voice softened as he addressed me: “Hello, wife.”

The word echoed in my ears, a jolt of recognition mixed with disbelief and a surge of unfamiliar excitement. I stood there, heart pounding, unable to speak, as the promise of an unexpected future suddenly flickered to life between us.