Chapter 3

The next morning, my phone was empty. Not a single message or call from Julian.

I wasn't even angry.

After a follow-up at the hospital confirmed there were no lasting issues, I signed the discharge papers and went straight home.

The triplex in Tribeca sat high above the Hudson River, sleek and pristine. We had paid in full for it just last year.

Seven years ago, fresh out of Columbia, we'd crammed into a Queens basement, sharing one flimsy box of cheap takeout.

Five years ago, on the day we got married, we signed our papers at City Hall, then celebrated with two hot dogs from a food cart. That night, we split a supermarket cake at home.

And now, I was here—alone, sitting in what looked like a showroom, with nothing but silence and pain echoing off the designer walls.

I figured, I'd get used to it eventually.

I was on the couch, scrolling through the divorce agreement my lawyer had emailed, when I heard the door unlock.

Julian stepped inside, dragging in a heavy waft of rose perfume—Chanel. Chloe's signature scent.

The smell made my nose wrinkle.

Julian had always been sensitive to fragrance, allergic to most synthetic perfumes. He used to hate even the faintest whiff. Because of him, I'd gone scent-free for years—unscented lotion, hypoallergenic detergent, fragrance-free everything.

Clearly, the allergy only applied to me.

He paused when he saw me on the couch, holding my tablet, and blinked in surprise. Then his expression smoothed over into casual indifference.

"Chloe drank too much at the afterparty last night," he began. "She slipped and fell, so I took her home."

He scratched his head, playing at sheepish. "It got late. I ended up crashing at a hotel nearby and didn't make it to the hospital to pick you up. Are you okay?"

I nodded, eyes still on my screen. I canceled an order from a supplier and replied without looking up. "Got it."

He opened his mouth, hesitating, clearly thrown off.

I wasn't reacting like the Natalie he knew—the one who used to panic if he was ten minutes late, constantly checking his location, breathing anxiety into dead air.

He took two slow steps forward. Loosened his tie. Looked down at me.

"It's Saturday," he said. "Take it easy with the work. I'm planning to take Chloe to Paris for a breather... and maybe scout the market a bit. Want to come?"

Seven years ago, on my birthday, we had taken a Polaroid in Times Square with a guy dressed as Lady Liberty. Looking at the photo, Julian had promised, "One day, when we can afford it, I'll take you to Paris. We'll get that same photo—with the Eiffel Tower behind us."

Then the company grew. He got busier. He'd laugh and stall with lines like: "Nat, this is a critical round of funding. I'm the CEO. I can't just drop everything and fly to Europe."

He would touch my shoulder and say, "You understand, right?"

I understood. I understood so well that I never mentioned Paris again. I buried everything in ops and helped him build his empire instead.

But apparently, when Chloe wanted Paris, his schedule magically opened up.

I opened the next email. My tone was as calm and bland as the weather report. "A three-person trip sounds cramped. I'll pass."

He looked relieved, like he'd dodged something. His shoulders eased.

"Okay," he nodded. "I'll grab my passport. Order something for lunch. I'll be back tonight—we can eat together."

He paused, then shifted tone, a little too deliberate. "And by the way, this merger is key to opening our global markets. I've invited investors and major media. We'll hold the launch at Cipriani Hall on Wall Street this Monday."

He looked directly at me. "Don't worry—I'll officially introduce you as cofounder this time. Chloe won't interfere. You always wanted that moment beside me, right? Well, Monday's your chance. Be ready."

I looked up at him, expression unreadable.

I knew what this was. His version of an apology. A pathetic attempt at compensation for everything Chloe had done last night.

Fine. It worked out.

Canceling the European deal needed a few more days of legal clearance anyway.

Announcing it on Monday would be perfect.