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“When it comes down to it, Clara will always choose herself.”

Her father’s words might ring in my head, but they don’t ring true. The chair legs object loudly as I spring from my seat, unable to sit here staring at this fucking crime scene. But there is no escape from her. There are dark strands of her hair on the sofa back and a bag of half-eaten gummy bears by the coffee machine, and the air carries the scent of her perfume. It’s fucking unbearable.

I find myself in the bedroom, the scene here no better. Her charger left on the nightstand. Her ring. My heart sinks at the sight of it. My closet is still filled with plastic crates stacked full of her belongings. The things she didn’t unpack because this marriage was only temporary.

I drop to the edge of the bed and press my hands to my face. Rake my fingers through my hair. “Fuck. Fuck!” What have I done?

I left her alone last night, but I couldn’t explain why. Not yet, at any rate. Max had called a meeting with legal and the outside counsel he’d hired to hash this fucking ultimatum out.

Some choice. The lesser of two evils, or whatever that fucker Forbes called it.

Fucked up is what it is.

But before those experts had filed into the room, I’d already decided. I wouldn’t be pushed. I already made my choice. I just needed to find an exit on my own terms.

When I’d gotten home and Clara wasn’t in my bed, I told myself that was fair. I was preoccupied—a miserable fuck. I’d communicated poorly. Why the fuck would she want to be near me? While my arms ached to hold her, I forced myself to stay put. Going to her would make me nothing a greedy, using fuck. Like yesterday afternoon when I’d bent her over the desk so she couldn’t read the trouble on my face.

I’d reasoned one night of not holding her wouldn’t kill me. And then this morning, still in stupid fuckin’ CEO-crisis mode, I tried to be engaging, but I couldn’t reach for her because I still didn’t trust myself. And now I’ve fucking ruined it.

“Goddamn it!” I jump up from the bed, my skin tight with rage. I knew she would leave. I fucking said she’d get her trust fund, then bail because she doesn’t need me anymore.

I’m such a fuckhead. I should’ve told her how I feel. But now she’s left, and that’s it.

But a fist tightens in my gut because this doesn’t ring true. These weeks have been the best. For me. For her. So where do I go from here?

The answer comes to me in an instant. I need to run a threat model to help me get to the bottom of this.

First step. What is she doing?

This is where I start. Not why—that comes later.

I think back to how stoic she seemed. How she left calmly without a scene. Which means she planned it. That she had time to think, then framed things as transactional. Trust fund. Publicity. She reduced our marriage to its originally stated terms. Which also means—

My jaw tightens. It means she’s talking shit.

Because we’ve grown close. Even if she didn’t love me, and I think she fuckin’ does, there would still be feelings. Emotions she wouldn’t have been able to hide during her exit. Not without preparation.

Then my distance last night and my behavior this morning—she just rolled with it. She didn’t react or call me out or give me a hard time. Unlike the Clara I know. She had a headache, sure, and when I came back into the room with pills, she was pretty pale.

An image flashes in my head. Her stricken expression. The kitchen counter. My phone.

I release a short breath. Huh.

Max’s voice message. Eliminate the vulnerability.

Fuck me. How sickening that must’ve been to hear.

She didn’t leave because there’s nothing more to gain. She removed herself before I removed her. In a reversal of our histories. Jesus Christ, she thinks I’d survive her loss easier than that of my company. How fucked up—and how I’ve fucked up. All because I couldn’t be honest.

With myself. With her.

I stalk out of the room. I don’t need to run a full threat model as I skip what could go wrong, and spring straight to what am I going to do about it?

That’s easy. I’m gonna get my wife.

In the lounge, I come to an abrupt stop as the setting sun bursts through the wall of windows. It’s fucking beautiful but it means nothing. This place means nothing. It was never a home, it was a fortress. But what good is any fortress if it costs you the one thing that made it worth defending?

Paris. Florence. Maybe both. Possibly even somewhere else on that vast fucking continent.