Chapter 3: Starting Over
I find a large cardboard box and spend the entire night sleeplessly purging every trace of our so–called happiness.
The matching “his and hers” slippers. The stupid couple mugs that fit together like puzzle pieces. The “smart” keychains that vibrate when the other person is nearby. The drawer full of lingerie he bought me that always matched his s*xual fantasies more than my taste. The collection of s*x toys we’d accumulated over the years, including the handc*ffs still hanging from his bedpost that he’d used on me that last night before everything fell apart. And box after box of photos–selfies, professional shoots, vacation pictures–all of them lies captured on glossy paper. These were once my pathetic attempts to prove we had a real relationship when I felt most insecure. My evidence collection for a relationship trial that never happened.
Now, they’re just garbage waiting for pickup.
Ethan doesn’t come home for two weeks straight.
During those two weeks, aside from finishing my design projects, I systematically empty the entire apartment. The furniture I picked out and paid for gets sold on
Facebook Marketplace or donated.
When I’m done, the place reverts to how it looked when I first moved in—all minimalist black and white decor, so sterile and cold you could perform surgery in the living room.
The night before I leave, I decide some things should be said directly to Ethan, so I
call him.
But he rejects my calls. Again and again and again.
After a while, a text message appears on my screen:
If you haven’t recognized your mistake and aren’t ready to sincerely apologize to Ava, then I don’t think we have anything to talk about.
I laugh bitterly. Fine then. No more talking. Ever.
The next morning, I drag my suitcase out the door for an early flight.
This apartment that once felt so cozy, so much like home, now feels like a prison
I’m
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escaping. Leaving fills me with nothing but profound relief.
Just before boarding, my phone blows up with birthday messages. Friends wishing
me success, happiness, and a wonderful marriage to a deserving man.
I reply to each one, then power off my phone.
As the plane takes off, I think: I will be happy. With so many people wishing me
well, how could I not be?
The flight to Switzerland stretches on, the sky outside a brilliant blue that gradually shifts and changes. Sometimes there’s a rolling sea of clouds, sometimes the
sunset paints everything a fiery red.
A flash of inspiration hits me and I quickly sketch a design idea in my notebook. By the time I finish, the world outside has gone dark. My sketch pad shows a design for a pendant–two intertwined flames, one protecting the other. Something about this new beginning makes me want to capture it in gold and
diamonds.
It’s strange–flying from New York to Geneva feels like time travel. Taking off at 8 AM on the 27th, landing at 11 PM on the 26th, like I’ve gained a day back in my life.
A day Ethan hasn’t ruined yet. A day I get to live without his shadow hanging over
- me.
I carry this strange feeling of liberation with me as I exit the terminal. There they are–Mom, Dad, and Jake standing in a row, waving and smiling, impossible to miss. Mom’s platinum blonde hair (the source of my own) perfectly styled despite
the late hour, Dad still in his business suit like he came straight from a meeting, Jake towering over both of them with that protective stance he’s had since we were
kids.
I run to them, pulling my suitcase behind me, and fall into my mother’s embrace, savoring the warmth I’ve missed for so long.
Years ago, driven by my foolish heart, I ignored my parents‘ concerns and insisted on attending college in Manhattan to be near Ethan.
They reluctantly let me go, accepting my choice even when they knew better. Little did any of us know I’d stay away for eight years, returning only for brief
Christmas visits. leaving them to miss their daughter while I played house with a
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I was such a terrible daughter.
Feeling tears welling up, I quickly pull away from my mother.
“Mom, I’m starving,” I say, changing the subject.
She smiles, stroking my cheek with all the love I’ve been missing. “Come on, honey. I’ll make your favorite pasta carbonara when we get home.”
“Perfect.”
I loop one arm through my dad’s and the other through my mom’s as we walk out of the airport, laughing and talking as if no time has passed.
Meanwhile, back in New York, the scene in Ethan’s apartment couldn’t be more different.
He sits on the floor, completely devastated, calling my number over and over again.
To avoid forgetting my birthday, Ethan always sets a reminder on his phone. This year is no exception.
Early on the morning of the 27th, the alarm wakes him in Ava’s guest room. Out of habit, he sits up, planning to go shopping for ingredients to make my birthday dinner. He’s already had a bracelet custom–made as my gift.
But as he walks into the living room and sees Ava, he hesitates.
Because I still haven’t apologized to her.
He can’t understand why I’m being so stubborn this time when I’ve always been so agreeable before.
After spending half the day at Ava’s house feeling restless, receiving no messages from me, he finally decides to go home and check on things.
But when he opens the door to our familiar apartment, the interior makes him
wonder if he’s entered the wrong place. The warm touches I’d added–the throw
pillows, the plants, the framed artwork–all gone.
He steps out and comes back in. The apartment still has the cold, minimal look it had seven years ago before I moved in and softened it with all the homey touches he pretended to hate but secretly appreciated.
In a panic, he rushes through the rooms, searching desperately for any trace of
- me.
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The kitchen where I’d taught him to make pancakes. The living room where we’d spent countless rainy Sundays tangled on the couch. The bedroom where just days
ago we’d made I*ve for what he didn’t realize would be the last time.
After turning the entire place upside down, he can’t find a single item that belongs to me. Not a sock, not a hairpin, nothing. Even my toothbrush is gone from the
bathroom we shared for seven years.
“What the f**k happened?” he whispers, his voice breaking as he slides down against the bedroom wall.
He pulls out his phone and calls me repeatedly, nearly going insane listening to the automated voice telling him my phone is off.
He tries messaging me on every social platform we use, only to discover I’ve blocked him everywhere.
If he didn’t clearly remember our seven years together, he might believe I was just
a figment of his imagination.
In his confusion, he remembers the couple’s location app we once used.
Opening it, he sees I’ve turned off my location sharing.
But the history log shows something strange. Two weeks ago, I had approached
his location, stopped about a hundred feet away for several minutes, then turned
around and left.
His intuition tells him something significant happened that day.
When he checks the calendar to see which day it was, the phone slips from his
hand and shatters on the floor.
Back in Switzerland, a lavish engagement dinner is arranged at a five–star hotel. Everyone connected to my father’s business has been invited to celebrate. After being dragged around to toast with countless guests, my feet aching in my heels, I escape to a guest room for a breather.
I’ve barely stretched out on the bed when I hear a noise from the bathroom that
startles me.
“Who’s there?” I call out.
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Getting no response, I cautiously approach the bathroom door.
As soon as it opens, I’m pulled inside with surprising force for someone who
seems unsteady.
My scream is muffled as I stare in shock at the man before me. He’s gorgeous–tall with wet dark hair slicked back, water droplets trailing down his chiseled jawline. His white shirt clings to his body, completely soaked through and practically transparent against his sculpted chest.
He’s pinning me against the cold marble wall, his breathing hot and labored
against my neck. His thigh presses between my legs, causing my cocktail dress to ride up slightly.
“J**us Chr**t,” he groans, his voice a deep, intoxicating rumble. “You’re even
hotter in person than your photos.”
He seems to struggle to focus on my face, his piercing blue eyes slightly
unfocused, before finally saying my name.
“Sophie Winters?” His accent gives the syllables a sexy lilt.
I blink in confirmation, my heart racing at the unexpected intimacy of our position.
He releases his grip but suddenly leans his weight against me, his hard body pressed fully against mine. I can smell expensive cologne mingled with whiskey on
his breath.
“What a coincidence,” he mumbles, his lips dangerously close to my ear. “I’m your not–quite–husband yet. Care to help a guy out of a f**ked–up situation?” His hand absently traces up my bare arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.
“What–what kind of situation?” I stammer, then realize how naive I sound. “Wait,
why should I believe you’re who you say you are?” I try to sound tough while acutely aware of every point where our bodies touch.
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through his chest against mine. His breath tickles my cheek as he leans in even closer.
“Smart girl,” he whispers approvingly. “Check the wallet in my back pocket if you want. Call anyone to verify.” He doesn’t move to make this easier, clearly enjoying
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the fact that I’d have to reach around him, essentially embracing him to comply. My cheeks burning, I push against his chest, feeling solid muscle beneath my palms. He sways slightly but gives me just enough space to reach into his pocket. My fingers brush against the warm fabric covering his hip, then dip into his pocket for his wallet, accidentally grazing something I shouldn’t. He makes a small sound in his throat that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
I flip open the leather wallet with trembling fingers, checking the ID inside. Holy
sh*t. It really is him.
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