A Hundred Chances Is Enough

The steak on my plate had gone cold while I waited. On the television, a news anchor described how Julian had carried Serena into the emergency room. The footage showed his face as he shouted for a doctor. He had forgotten our fifth wedding anniversary. Again. Arthur, Julian’s assistant, came in carrying a leather portfolio. He kept his eyes on the table. “Mrs. Vance.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Julian sends his deepest apologies. Serena had an episode. He asked me to deliver this to you.” He set the portfolio beside my plate. It could only contain another property deed. This one was a French winery. The hundredth apology. The first had come six months into our marriage: a penthouse overlooking the city. He had missed my birthday and flown to Paris because Serena felt a panic attack coming on. I’d cried when I signed for it. The tenth was a private island. He had spent Christmas beside Serena because she “couldn’t be alone.” By then I signed without arguing. The fiftieth was a collection of vintage cars I would never drive. He had stood me up at an awards ceremony honoring my work. I left the keys in their presentation box. I had accepted the first ninety-nine deeds and keys. One hundred was enough. I reached for the pen. “Thank you, Arthur.” I signed the transfer agreement. Arthur exhaled and reached for the cover. I kept the portfolio and opened the drawer of the mahogany sideboard, beside the good napkins we never used. I pulled out a matching leather-bound portfolio. It was identical to Julian’s, a custom order I’d placed a month ago. “There’s one more document that needs your attention,” I said, sliding it across the polished wood. Arthur’s professional smile slipped. He read the first page twice. “Mrs. Vance. This is a divorce agreement.” I stood. “It’s already been filed. Julian has thirty days to respond. Please make sure he gets it.” I walked past him toward the grand foyer. My suitcase was waiting by the door. It had been packed for a week. “But where are you going?” I paused at the door and looked back at the empty room. “Home.” I didn’t have one yet, but I would find it. I stepped outside and pulled the door shut. I took the mansion key from my pocket. Heavy, ornate, and useless to me now. I tossed it into the iron trash bin by the gate. It hit the bottom with a dull clank. Tomorrow, Julian would launch the perfume I had created under Serena’s name.