Chapter 2

2.

Julian didn't come back to our Central Park West apartment until the next morning.

Seeing no espresso and croissants on the dining table, and no freshly ironed shirt in the closet, he frowned. "Where were you last night? So late?"

I nodded. "Meeting my lawyer."

I took a folder from my briefcase and placed it on the table. "Your lawyer will be in touch soon. This is the divorce agreement."

Julian didn't even look at it―he never bothered with details anyway―he just scrawled his signature where it was needed. For the past ten years, from his time as a prodigy at Juilliard to his current stardom, I had handled everything: his contracts, his schedule, his entire life.

I breathed a sigh of relief, gathered the documents, and prepared to leave.

But Julian blocked the door, his face dark as he grabbed my arm.

"You're being impulsive. Chloe had a sudden allergic reaction last night, a severe case of hives. I just took her to the emergency room. There's nothing going on between us."

It was the first and only time since we were married that he had ever bothered to explain himself.

But he had forgotten that I’d had a severe allergic reaction once, too.

My body was covered in red welts, I could barely breathe. When I begged him to take me to the hospital, what did he say?

"Can't you just call an Uber? What if I catch some virus? What about my performance next week?"

Seeing me unmoved, Julian was about to say more, but then Chloe's call came in.

Her tearful voice came through the phone. "Julian... I'm at Lincoln Center, but everyone's staring at me, whispering... I feel so ashamed, so awful..."

"Chloe, if you're sick, you should be resting at home! Didn't I tell you that yesterday?"

"But the tour rehearsal... I can't hold things back. I'd feel terrible..."

"Don't say that. How is being sick your fault?"

As he spoke, Julian turned and shot me an annoyed glare. "It's all because some people only care about tour profits and sponsorship deals, and couldn't care less if someone is on their deathbed."

"Just wait in my dressing room, okay? I'll be right there to take you home."

He slammed the door and left, completely ignoring the exhaustion and stress written all over my face.

I lowered my eyes, took out my phone, and contacted the up-and-coming pianist who was always inviting me to Paris―Leo Martinez.