Chapter 2

The next morning, I didn' t go to the office. I sat in my home studio, the plans for the new waterfront development spread out before me. The project was my baby, the culmination of years of work. I spent the entire day making notes, finalizing details, and drafting a comprehensive handover document. My focus was absolute, a clean, sharp line in the messy chaos of my emotions.

By evening, it was done. I emailed the entire package to my second-in-command with a simple subject line: "Final Project Files." I didn't need to explain. The completeness of the documents spoke for itself.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Judi.

Angelina, I'm so, so sorry about last night. Ismael and Danial are taking me out to dinner to cheer me up. They said I shouldn't worry, that you're just stressed from your illness. I hope you feel better soon!

A moment later, my Instagram feed refreshed. Judi had posted a photo. She was at a ridiculously expensive restaurant, the kind Danial and Ismael only took me to for major celebrations. In the photo, she was holding up a delicate porcelain teacup, a gift from Ismael' s recent trip to Japan. It was part of a set he had given me for my thirtieth birthday. On her wrist was a new, sparkling diamond bracelet. A gift from Danial, no doubt. The caption read: Feeling so blessed. Some people just know how to make a girl feel special. #bestbossever #kindnessmatters

I looked at the picture, at her triumphant, yet still carefully innocent smile. I felt nothing. No anger, no jealousy. Just a profound, quiet emptiness. It was like watching a movie about someone else's life.

I put my phone down. I walked to my desk and wrote my resignation letter. It was short and professional. I cited personal reasons and a desire to relocate. I emailed it to the head of the firm and copied HR.

Then, I called my realtor.

"I want to sell the house," I said, my voice steady. "And everything in it. List it as a turnkey property. I want it sold within two weeks."

There was a stunned silence on the other end. "Angelina? Are you sure? This house is your masterpiece."

"I'm sure," I said. "Price it to move."

That night, I started cleaning. But I wasn't just cleaning. I was erasing. I went through my closets, pulling out old photo albums. Pictures of me, Danial, and Ismael as kids, grinning with missing teeth. As teenagers, awkward and gangly at school dances. As adults, celebrating milestones, vacations, holidays. A lifetime of shared memories.

I carried the albums to the large, modern fireplace in my living room. I lit a match and dropped it onto the first page. The glossy paper curled, turned black, and then burst into orange flames. The smiling faces of our youth dissolved into ash.

I threw in more. Photos, old letters Ismael had written me from his races around the world, a dried corsage from a prom Danial had taken me to. Everything. The fire crackled, devouring our history.

The front door opened. Danial and Ismael walked in, laughing about something. They stopped dead when they saw me.

"Ange... what are you doing?" Danial' s voice was tight with disbelief.

Ismael stared at the fire, his face pale. "Are those... are those our pictures?"

I tossed another album into the flames without looking at them. The plastic cover melted with a soft hiss.

"It's just clutter," I said calmly.

"Clutter?" Ismael stepped forward, his voice cracking. "Angelina, that's our whole lives! How could you?" He reached toward the fire, as if to save a scrap of a memory, but the heat drove him back.

Danial just stood there, his fists clenched at his sides. He looked from my face to the fire, his expression a mixture of anger and confusion. "Stop it. Just stop. Whatever is bothering you, we can talk about it. Don't do this."

"There's nothing to talk about," I said, dusting off my hands. I looked at their pained faces, at the genuine hurt in their eyes. It was real, their pain. But it was too late. They broke it first.

I turned my back on them and the fire and walked towards the kitchen. I wondered what they would do when they found out I was selling the house we had all picked out together, the house they still had keys to. The thought brought me no satisfaction, only a weary sense of finality. This was the only way. A clean cut.