Chapter 4 No.4

The first thing she did was prune her digital life.

She went through her social media, methodically unfollowing Cleve's friends, his business partners, the charities his company sponsored. It was a quiet, bloodless severing of ties. Each click was a small, satisfying snip.

The real world was harder to control.

Two days later, a package arrived. It was from Ivanna. Inside was a small, velvet box. Cecil opened it. A pair of diamond earrings glittered against the black lining.

A text from Ivanna followed moments later.

"Thinking of you! Cleve bought these for me, but I felt they were too much. I thought of you immediately. Hope you like them. Xo."

It was a lie. A picture of the earrings, worn by Ivanna, had been featured in a society column just yesterday. The caption read: "A smiling Ivanna Mccarty, wearing a gift from her mentor, Cleve Drake."

Cecil stared at the text. Her fingers moved automatically.

"They're beautiful. Thank you."

Her response was a flat line. The emotional part of her that would have felt rage, or pain, or humiliation, was gone. It had been cauterized.

That afternoon, she met an old family friend for lunch. A woman who had known her since she was a child.

"You look tired, dear," the woman said, her eyes full of pity. "But it's so wonderful how Cleve is stepping up. Taking that poor girl, Ivanna, under his wing. It shows what a good heart he has. He's always been your rock."

Cecil picked at her salad. A rock. Yes, he had been a rock. One that she had been chained to, one that was slowly dragging her under.

"We're getting divorced," Cecil said. The words came out easily, clinically.

The woman's jaw dropped.

"I'm leaving," Cecil continued, meeting her gaze. "There's nothing for me here anymore."

That night, she dreamt of Leo.

They were kids again, at the old lake house. The sun was warm on her skin. Leo was laughing, a full, healthy sound she hadn't heard in years. He was running toward the water, turning back to wave at her.

She woke up with tears on her cheeks. The warmth of the dream faded, leaving a familiar ache. For a moment, she let the grief wash over her. It wasn't Cleve's betrayal that was the true tragedy. It was that he had given her hope. He had built her a world, and then systematically burned it to the ground with her inside.

The next day, she began to pack. Not memories this time, but necessities. Clothes, books, her medical texts. She was sorting through a drawer of old papers when she found it. Her first research grant proposal. It was covered in Cleve's notes, his handwriting sharp and intelligent. He had believed in her then.

The doorbell rang. It was Cleve.

He saw the boxes stacked in the hall. "What's all this?"

"Just some spring cleaning," she said.

His eyes fell on the grant proposal in her hand. He picked it up. "I remember this. You were so nervous." He smiled, a faint, nostalgic expression. Then he tossed it back on the pile of papers destined for the shredder.

"Ancient history," he said, his tone light. "Look how far you've come since then."

He didn't see the irony. He didn't see that he was the one who had made her brilliant past feel like nothing more than a useless artifact. He had just given her the final reason she needed.

There was nothing left to save.