Chapter 2

Amelia's POV

The bathroom timer went off. Thirty seconds later, Damian walked out with a towel around his neck.

Water droplets fell from his dark hair, soaking through his gray cotton T-shirt.

He didn't even glance at me.

His gaze went straight to the coffee table, landing precisely on the phone.

He snatched it up, unlocked it, and his thumbs flew across the screen.

He walked quickly into the study, never pausing for a second.

I stood in the living room doorway, watching his back.

"Damian," I said, breaking the silence, "it's past two in the morning. Aren't you going to sleep?"

He didn't turn around.

"I need to check the deployment logs," he said, eyes glued to the screen. "Go to bed. Don't wait up."

I didn't argue. I didn't point out that he'd claimed his phone was completely dead.

I just walked back to the hallway and watched him through the half-open study door.

As he typed out another message, a rare, gentle smile curved his lips.

In three years of living together, I'd never seen him smile like that.

With me, he was always stern, exhausted, or cold.

At that moment, the knot that had been lodged in my chest for so long finally came undone.

He wasn't emotionally obtuse. He wasn't incapable of love.

He just saved all his tenderness for someone else.

I closed the bedroom door, locked it, and lay down on one side of the large bed.

For the first time in months, I slept peacefully.

I woke at seven the next morning, put on a trench coat, and went down to the corner diner.

I bought two plain bagels, brought him a black coffee, and got an iced tea for myself.

When I got back to the apartment, Damian was already sitting at the kitchen island, wearing a crisp white shirt.

He looked up from his tablet, took the paper bag from me, and started spreading cream cheese on a bagel.

He ate quickly, glancing at his watch every two minutes.

"You seem to be in a hurry," I said, taking a slow sip of tea. "It's Saturday. Two weeks ago, you promised you'd take me to the botanical garden this weekend."

Damian paused. The butter knife froze mid-air.

He cleared his throat and looked away, avoiding my gaze.

"Amelia, the project funding committee had a last-minute emergency. Professor Vance called an urgent review. I have to be at the lab by ten."

I chewed my bagel calmly and nodded.

"Okay."

He was surprised that I didn't show any displeasure or argue.

In the past, whenever he broke a promise, I'd either pout, or cook an elaborate meal to win him back, or even beg him to stay just one more hour.

My unusual calm was clearly making him uneasy.

He set down the knife and reached across the counter, patting my wrist.

"I'll make it up to you next month," he said, making another empty promise. "We'll go upstate for the whole weekend. I promise."

I didn't respond to his promise.

His gaze moved away from my face to the wall by the refrigerator.

There hung a small brass hook, holding a thick tear-off calendar—one I'd picked up from an antique shop the previous afternoon.

On the first page, a bold, striking number was printed: "30."

"What's that?" he asked, frowning at the bright red digit. "Since when did we start using a paper calendar?"

I stood up, walked to the calendar, and pinched the corner of the top page between two fingers.

With a crisp tear, I ripped off the page marked "30" and dropped it into the trash can beneath the counter.

The page below showed "29."

"It's a countdown," I said evenly. "The deadline for an important project."

Damian let out a sigh of relief. He visibly relaxed.

"Right, your design firm is bidding on that rebranding account. Don't push yourself too hard."

He wiped his mouth with a napkin, grabbed his briefcase, and headed for the door.

"I might be late tonight. I'll stop by that Broadway patisserie on the way back and get you some lemon tarts."

The door clicked shut behind him.

I stood in the silent apartment, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.

What he didn't know was that lemon tarts were Blake's favorite—not mine.

I was allergic to citrus zest.

I'd told him on our first date three years ago, but he'd never remembered.

Only after the hallway fell completely silent did I go into the storage closet and drag out three heavy-duty black garbage bags.

It was time to clean house.

I started with the bathroom.

On the sink sat a pair of matching ceramic toothbrush cups, one I'd bought when we first signed the lease.

His was navy blue. Mine was pale pink.

I threw the pink cup into the garbage bag without hesitation.

Then the matching bath towels, the strawberry body wash he'd complained was too sweet, and my backup skincare products.

Next, the living room.

On the sofa were two throw pillows embroidered with our initials.

I ripped off the pillowcases and stuffed them into the bag.

The matching mugs on the dining table, the framed photo of us at his college graduation—where he wore only a faint, forced smile while I beamed with pride—even the succulent I'd tended on the windowsill, all went into the bags.

By noon, the apartment felt noticeably emptier.

Every trace that a woman named Amelia had ever lived there was being systematically erased.

To him, this three-bedroom apartment had always been nothing but a convenient hotel—someone did his laundry, and hot meals appeared on time.

Unless the walls themselves started crumbling, he'd never notice a thing was missing.