Chapter 2

2.

When I walked out of the apartment, I took nothing but my classic Chanel flap bag.

I didn't call for the Bentley. Instead, I hailed a yellow cab. I wanted to smell the mix of old leather and cheap air freshener―the smell of real life, not the sterile, fake environment of the Upper East Side.

"SoHo," I told the driver.

As the cab weaved through traffic, I watched the city blur past. We passed a bridal shop, and the giant white gown in the window made my stomach turn.

I walked into a hair salon in SoHo known for being edgy and rebellious. There was no soft classical music, only heavy metal and the sharp chemical smell of hair dye.

The stylist, a young man with tattooed arms, looked at me in disbelief, scissors in hand.

"Honey, are you sure?" He lifted a lock of my blonde hair, which was silky and flowed in perfect waves, shimmering expensively under the lights. "This hair is a work of art. Do you know how much money and time it takes to maintain this kind of shine?"

I knew. I knew all too well.

Deep conditioning treatments twice a week, products flown in from France, sleeping on a silk pillowcase.

It wasn't just hair. It was Spencer's "aesthetic standard."

He used to stroke my long hair, his gaze possessive and controlling. "You know, Chloe, long hair is feminine. Short, severe haircuts are so aggressive, like those radical feminists. I want my wife to look soft, like she needs to be protected. You understand, right?"

Because of those words, I would squeeze in time for a goddamn hair treatment even when I was neck-deep in the most complex M&A due diligence. I had molded myself into the woman he wanted.

But now, this long hair felt heavy, like a set of chains.

Just as I was about to speak, my phone buzzed. A FaceTime request from Spencer.

I hesitated for a second, then answered.

On the screen, Spencer sat in his office overlooking Wall Street, the sky a grim gray behind the forest of steel.

"Where are you?" He frowned, clearly annoyed that I wasn't waiting for him in the apartment.

I didn't speak. I just turned the camera to face the mirror.

He saw the stylist's scissors, the sharp blades resting right beside my ear.

Spencer’s expression froze, then twisted into a contemptuous sneer. He looked at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum.

"Chloe, don't tell me you're cutting your hair. You're being hysterical." He shook his head, fiddling with his Montblanc pen. "You know how I feel about short hair. It makes you look like... like some angry activist. It's completely unattractive. After all the years I've spent cultivating your taste, you're going to ruin yourself?"

Cultivating.

The word hit me like a slap. In his eyes, I wasn't a partner. I wasn't even a person. I was a prize horse he had trained, a trophy that had to meet his standards for display.

The old me would have argued. I would have tried to prove that short hair could be beautiful. I might have even put down the scissors to please him.

But today, I just looked at the tired woman in the mirror.

I spoke calmly to the stylist behind me. "Cut it. Cut it all off. As short as you can go."

"What?" Spencer, on the screen, clearly didn't expect this defiance.

The stylist, though surprised, did as I asked.

Snip.

The first lock of blonde hair drifted down onto the black cape, like a dead snake.

Spencer's smirk vanished. He shot up from his chair, which screeched against the floor.

"Chloe! You better not do this! Our wedding is next month at the New York Public Library! Are you going to embarrass me with that thing on your head? Do you have any idea how ridiculous this will make me look in front of my partners? Like I can't even control my own fiancée!"

That's what he cared about. Not my feelings, not my choice, but his "control" over me.

I still didn't say anything. I just watched the mirror.

As chunks of golden hair fell away, I felt a coolness on my neck I hadn't felt in years. The chill ran down my spine, but it felt strangely clarifying.

The perfect Barbie doll was dying. And the Chloe who used to dominate law school debates was slowly waking up in the eyes of the stranger with short hair in the mirror.

Seeing that his anger wasn't working, Spencer took a deep breath and switched to his favorite tactic: emotional manipulation.

"Listen, baby," his voice turned soft and low, the purr of a predator closing in. "I know you're upset about that stupid printing error. But you can't take it out on our image. How about this? If you stop right now, just keep the length you have left, I'll take you to buy that Himalayan Birkin you've been eyeing for months. You've always wanted it, haven't you? Just be reasonable."

Be a good little pet, and the master will give you a treat.

I looked at the screen and finally spoke. My voice was hoarse but perfectly clear.

"Spencer, I don't want the Birkin. And I don't want this hair anymore."

With that, I hung up.

When the last of the clippings were swept away, I stared at my reflection. A pixie cut made my soft features look sharp and defined, my jawline clear and strong. I no longer looked docile. I looked like I had a bit of a fight in me again.

That was more like it.

It was getting dark when I left the salon. A black Porsche 911 screeched to a halt beside the curb.

The window rolled down, revealing Spencer's furious face. When he saw that I had actually gone through with it, his eye twitched. He looked at me with disgust and anger, as if I'd just thrown sewage on his expensive suit.

"Get in," he commanded through gritted teeth.

I opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.

The moment I closed the door, a thick, suffocating scent hit me.

I'm extremely sensitive to smells. Spencer's car used to only smell of faint cigar smoke and Hermès leather. But this―this was cloying and cheap. A sickly sweet, aggressive floral scent, like a discount perfume for teenagers, mixed with an air freshener that was failing to cover something up.

It was Ivy's scent.

My stomach clenched. This car had been a birthday present to me. This passenger seat was my seat. But now, it had been marked.

"Who was sitting here?" I asked, my voice as calm as if I were asking about the weather.

Spencer's hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

"Ivy's car broke down. I gave her a lift to the subway," he said, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at me. "You know how hard it is to get a cab in this area at this time."

"A lift?" I scoffed. "If you drove from Wall Street to SoHo to pick me up, you'd have to cross half of Manhattan to give her a 'lift' to the subway."

Spencer slammed his hand on the steering wheel and whipped his head around to glare at me. "Jesus Christ! Now it's an interrogation! You're acting insane! Why aren't you throwing a fit? The old you would be demanding to see the dashcam footage by now!"

I leaned back against the headrest and watched the neon lights stream by.

"Let's just go to dinner. I'm tired."

No jealousy. No hysterics. When you're completely done with someone, even fighting feels like a waste of energy.