Three Years Up, I’m Packing to Leave

Nine jewelry boxes. I slid the drawer shut before I could count them again. The velvet cases were stacked neatly, each one a different color—midnight blue, champagne, ivory—like a row of beautiful little coffins. I hadn't opened the last three. Didn't need to. I already knew what was inside: something exquisite, something worth more than most people's cars, and absolutely nothing I'd asked for. Alex Anderson bought me jewelry the way other men bought apology flowers. Except flowers had the decency to die. The bedroom door opened. His cologne hit me first—Tom Ford, the oud one, layered over the faintest trace of something floral that didn't belong to me. My fingers tightened on the suitcase zipper. "What's this?" He stopped in the doorway, jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loosened. Still gorgeous. That was the cruelest part—three years in, and the sight of him still made my chest ache. "Sorting through old clothes," I said without turning around. I felt him scan the room. The half-packed suitcase. My passport on the nightstand. The tension lasted exactly two seconds before he decided to believe the version that was easier. "Good." His shoulders dropped. He didn't even notice his own relief. "Listen—about the lipstick on my collar. Emmy spilled her coffee, I leaned in to help, it's not—" "I know. She's your secretary." I zipped the case. The sound was louder than I intended. "You've told me." Fourteen times. But who's counting. He crossed the room in three strides and pressed a small box into my palm. Black velvet this time. "Picked this up at the auction house. Don't say I never think of you." The box was warm from his pocket. I closed my fingers around it. "Thank you." I didn't open it. He didn't notice. "There's my girl." He kissed the top of my head—quick, distracted, already thinking about something else. "Don't be petty, darling. A woman in your position should be above jealousy." He said it the way he said everything lately—like he was coaching me. Like being his wife was a job I kept underperforming at. I waited until his study door clicked shut. Then I opened the nightstand drawer and placed box number nine beside the others. A woman in my position. I almost laughed. He didn't know about the agreement. The one his mother had slipped in front of me two days before our wedding, with her lawyer standing in the corner like a piece of expensive furniture. Three years. If he still loves you, you stay. If he doesn't—you leave. Quietly. No settlement. No scene. I'd signed it without hesitating. Back then, Alex had starved himself for three days to convince his parents to let him marry me. He'd threatened to disappear—take her and never come back. His mother's hand had trembled when she signed the marriage certificate. That was the Alex who loved me. This one bought me jewelry and came home smelling like someone else's perfume. The housekeeper knocked. "Ma'am? This came for you." A manila envelope. Thick. No return address, but I knew the handwriting by now—looping and feminine, with little hearts dotting the i's. Emmy. I opened it over the bed. Photos spilled out like a paper avalanche. Dozens. Maybe a hundred. Alex on a yacht, his arm around a woman in a white bikini. Alex at a ski lodge, laughing—really laughing, the kind that crinkled his eyes, the kind I hadn't seen directed at me in over a year. Alex in a restaurant I didn't recognize, feeding her from his fork. Emmy. Emmy. Emmy. My hands didn't shake. That was new. Six months ago, the first envelope had sent me to the bathroom floor, sobbing until my ribs ached. Now I just felt— Tired. My phone buzzed. Alex's name on the screen. Baby, something came up at the office. Emmy needs me to review a contract. Don't wait up. I stared at the message. Then I typed back: Okay. Work comes first. Three dots appeared. Disappeared. He was surprised. I was usually the one who called back, voice cracking, asking when he'd be home. Not tonight. I set my phone on the nightstand, face down, and pulled the suitcase back out. Two more days. Then I'm gone. [END CHAPTER — 710 words]