Chapter 1 - The Circle on the VanityThe cold rain continued to batter the glass terrace doors of our thirty-eighth-floor Chicago penthouse, the city lights below blurring into distorted streaks of amber and crimson.
I stood completely still in front of Ethan’s vanity.
My hand hovered over the polished mahogany surface, my eyes fixed on his wedding ring resting neatly beside his expensive watch display box. It wasn't tossed aside carelessly. It was placed intentionally, centered on a small velvet ring dish, shining with a silent, malicious coldness under the soft halogen light.
He hadn't lost it on the dance floor of The Velvet Room. He hadn't slipped it into his jacket pocket when the alcohol hit his bloodstream.
He had stood in this warm bedroom at seven o'clock while I was downstairs in the kitchen making his favorite pasta, pulled the band from his ring finger, set it down, and walked out to meet Chloe as an available man.
I didn't cry. The tears that usually flooded my eyes whenever Ethan raised his voice or ignored my calls seemed to freeze solid inside my chest.
I reached out, my fingers cold and steady, and picked up the platinum band.
Six years ago, on a sunny afternoon in Lake Forest, Ethan had slipped this exact ring onto my finger, his voice trembling as he swore before two hundred guests that I was his anchor, his strength, and his home.
Now, it was just a twelve-gram piece of metal he left behind like an unwanted prop.
I turned around, walking calmly back into the walk-in closet.
I didn't touch my own clothes. I pulled every custom suit, silk tie, designer jacket, and leather shoe belonging to Ethan off the racks, dumping them methodically into the two large black suitcases laid open on our bed.
When the suitcases overflowed, I grabbed two heavy black trash bags from under the sink, packing his remaining casual wear, his cologne bottles, his grooming kits, and the framed photographs of us from our honeymoon in Amalfi.
By 2:45 in the morning, Ethan’s side of the closet was entirely bare. His vanity was empty. His presence in our master bedroom had been surgically erased.
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I zipped the two large suitcases shut, dragged them out to the foyer, and set them flat against the front door, blocking the entrance. Beside the suitcases, resting flat on top of the leather handle, I set his platinum wedding ring.
Then, I sat down on the white velvet armchair in the living room, facing the front door, holding a steaming cup of black tea in both hands, and waited.
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