Chapter 8

Graves was furious. He called my lawyer, screaming, demanding to know what I had done.

My lawyer, a man I paid handsomely for his discretion and loyalty, calmly informed him that since the property was no longer mine, I had simply removed my personal effects, including the "plants" from the garden.

The cooling-off period for our divorce was almost over. It would be finalized on Valentine's Day. The irony was not lost on me.

On the morning of the 14th, Alex, now fully recovered and more arrogant than ever, whined to Graves that she wanted to spend the day on a romantic getaway. She wanted him to prove his love for her.

Graves, still annoyed with me but utterly captivated by her, agreed. He called me one last time on the burner phone.

"Kimberly," he said, his voice strained. "I'm taking Alex to Paris for a few days. Don't... don't do anything else stupid while I'm gone."

"I won't," I said, my voice a placid lake. "Have a good trip, Graves. You both deserve it."

"And when I get back," he continued, "we need to talk. This... this ends now."

"I agree," I said softly. "It does."

He hung up. I could picture him, relieved, believing he still had the upper hand, that he could still control me.

The moment he was gone, I acted. I packed the single suitcase that held the last remnants of my old life and walked out of the apartment. I didn't look back.

My first stop was my lawyer's office. I signed the final divorce papers. The penthouse, the company shares, everything that was legally his, was now firewalled from me. The Malibu property and a significant portion of our liquid assets were now solely mine.

My second stop was the cryopreservation facility. I picked up a small, heavily insulated container.

I went to a courier service and sent a package to the penthouse, addressed to Graves Kramer. Inside were two things: a copy of the finalized, legally stamped divorce decree, and the small, frozen container.

I included a simple note. "You wanted a child with her. Here's the one you and I made. Congratulations, you're free."

Then, I went to the airport. I smashed the burner phone in a trash can, dropped it in, and walked towards the gate for a one-way flight to an undisclosed location. I deleted every social media account, every email address, every possible way he could trace me.

Kimberly Kramer was dead. A new person was born.

Meanwhile, in Paris, Graves was pulling out all the stops for Alex. He rented out an entire restaurant with a view of the Eiffel Tower. He showered her with diamonds and designer clothes. He was trying to erase the ugliness of the past few weeks with a grand, romantic gesture.

They were in the middle of a candlelit dinner, Alex giggling as he fed her a strawberry, when his personal assistant called. It was an emergency.

"Sir," the assistant said, his voice panicked. "A package arrived for you. It's... you need to see it."

Graves, annoyed at the interruption, brushed him off. But the seed of unease had been planted. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something was terribly, irrevocably wrong.