Chapter 7

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.