I Never Expected Him to Threw Me Away for Someone New

The living room television showed a live feed from the airport. Julian Cross stood between the cameras and a crying woman, one arm around her shoulders. He angled his body whenever a reporter moved closer, giving the cameras a clean view of his face and none of hers. Even through the screen, I could see rain darkening the shoulders of his coat. That woman was Anna Silva, his first love. Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. I accepted a velvet box from Julian’s assistant, Mark. A cream-colored note sat on top. Mark had delivered enough of these boxes to know where to stand and how long to wait. He kept his eyes on the empty coffee table while I read. I knew the sharp slant of Julian’s handwriting. *Something came up with Anna. Raincheck.* Raincheck. He used the same word for anniversaries, birthdays, and every dinner he left cooling on the table. I folded the note and crossed to the marble mantelpiece, where a glass jar stood beside a sculpture. The note joined the others at the bottom. Forty-nine in five years. Mark cleared his throat. “Mr. Cross also wanted you to have this.” Inside the box, a platinum key rested on black satin. “The penthouse on Cypress Avenue,” he added. “The deed is in your name.” Five years ago, I would have treated the key as an apology. Now it was an asset I would have to dispose of. The apartment, deed, and sale value arranged themselves in my head with no effort. Julian had taught me to treat every missed dinner as a transaction. I had finally learned. “Please thank him for me.” I closed the box and set it aside. Mark watched me for a second before sliding a thick manila folder across the coffee table. “There’s one more thing, Mrs. Cross. Julian asked me to present this to you.” I glanced at the cover. CONTRACT RENEWAL. “Our current agreement expires in three months,” he said. “Julian remains committed to Mia receiving the best care. This new five-year contract guarantees it.” For five years, Mia had depended on experimental treatments paid for through Julian’s network. He expected her illness to secure my signature for another five. Before the illness, my sister could fill a room by talking too fast and laughing over her own sentences. Then her body stopped obeying her. Every treatment carried a price neither of us could cover alone, and Julian made sure I knew whose name appeared on the bills. I picked up the folder. Mark’s eyes followed my hand to the signature tab. I left the folder on the table, unopened. That morning, a doctor from a small research facility had called me. Years ago, I had used the last of my own grant money to enroll Mia in its clinical trial. The facility had no ties to Julian. I had filed the application under my maiden name and answered every follow-up myself. It was one piece of my old career I had kept away from the Cross household. “The new therapy worked, Dr. Vance,” the doctor had said. “Your sister is in full remission. We can transfer her to a standard recovery facility by the end of the week.” I had sat down on the edge of my bed and made him repeat the result. Full remission. By the end of the week, Mia would be out of Julian’s network. The doctor talked me through the transfer requirements while I wrote them on the back of Julian’s anniversary note. When the call ended, my hand was shaking hard enough to blur the last line. I folded the paper before anyone came in. Mark was still waiting. I slid the unsigned contract back toward him. Exactly ninety days.