Chapter 1 - The Packing List
“You’re still going?”
The syllables felt jagged in my dry throat, tasting of copper and clinic sterile paper.
Stuart didn’t look directly at me. Instead, he unclipped his watch—the gold Omega I had given him for our fifth anniversary—and set it on the polished mahogany dresser my grandfather had built by hand.
“Evelyn, please don’t do this,” he sighed, exhaling a thin, exhausted breath that suggested I was the one imposing an unbearable burden on him. “The trip is non-refundable. We booked the villa four months ago. My mother has been counting down the days for her birthday, and Paige has had an awful quarter at work. You think I want to leave you like this? Of course I don’t. But staying here moping in the dark isn’t going to bring the pregnancy back. Life has to keep moving.”
I looked at his clean-shaven jaw, the tailored spread-collar shirt, the athletic posture that had charmed venture capitalists and municipal boards across the state. For eight years, I had believed that behind that charming veneer lived a partner who would weather the storms with me. I had endured three rounds of failed IVF, dozens of painful intramuscular progesterone shots that left my hips bruised black and blue, and countless quiet mornings crying on the cold bathroom tile.
“Life has to keep moving,” I repeated softly.
“Yes,” he said, stepping into the walk-in closet. “Mom said your large hard-shell Rimowa is already in the attic. Can you grab it down before you sleep? Her arthritis has been acting up, and Paige needs the extra space for her evening dresses.”
He came back out holding three pastel polo shirts and draped them over the back of the reading chair. Not once did he touch my shoulder. Not once did he ask if I had taken the antibiotics Dr. Grant prescribed to prevent an infection after the manual evacuation procedure.
“I won’t be going up to the attic tonight, Stuart,” I said.
He paused, a slight crease forming between his groomed eyebrows. It was the look he gave junior analysts when an invoice was improperly formatted—mild annoyance masquerading as corporate patience.
“Fine,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ll get it myself in the morning. Just try to get some sleep. You’re being unusually difficult, but I know you’re hormonal right now. I’ll make sure Paige doesn't play her music too loud downstairs.”
He walked into the adjoining bathroom, turned on the shower, and closed the frosted glass door. Through the steam, I watched his blurred silhouette. Within minutes, the steam smelled faintly of sandalwood and bergamot—his favorite cologne, the expensive custom blend I had found on an expense receipt billed under ‘Client Hospitality - Creative Strategy.’
I stood up. My body ached with a hollow, physical dragging sensation, but my hands had completely stopped shaking.
Downstairs, the house was alive with laughter. My grandfather’s antique pine floors creaked slightly under my slippers as I reached the top of the staircase. I didn't turn on the hall lights. I stood in the deep shadows, watching through the balusters into the kitchen below.
Paige was sitting on the granite island, swinging her bare feet while holding a glass of Pinot Grigio. On the counter beside her sat two open shopping bags from Saks Fifth Avenue.
“Stuart said we’re taking the private catamaran out on Saturday,” Paige said, her voice high and sparkling. “Tatum found a charter company that does sunset champagne cruises around the Arch. Did you see the bikini she tagged me in?”
Barbara was chopping limes at the cutting board. “Don’t say her name so loudly in this house, Paige. Have some discretion.”
“Oh, please,” Paige scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Evelyn is passed out upstairs feeling sorry for herself. She literally never leaves that bedroom when one of her treatments fails. Besides, Stuart said he’s telling her right after we get back from Cabo anyway. Why shouldn't Tatum come? She paid for half the private flight upgrade.”
“Tatum didn’t pay for it, dear,” Barbara said with a smug, knowing chuckle as she squeezed lime into her tumbler. “The company paid for it. Stuart handled the logistics. The firm had a wonderful third quarter, thank heavens. Evelyn’s father might have given Stuart the seed money, but my boy is the genius who made it an empire.”
“Amen to that,” Paige laughed, clinking her wine glass against her mother’s tumbler. “To Cabo. And to finally upgrading our sister-in-law.”
I stood frozen in the darkness of the landing. Every drop of blood in my veins seemed to turn into dry ice. They didn't just know about Tatum. They had integrated her. They were traveling with her. They were celebrating with the woman Stuart had installed in a two-thousand-nine-hundred-dollar apartment using corporate accounts, while I had been lying on an examination table an hour ago with ultrasound jelly cooling on my dead dreams.
I didn't scream. I didn't run downstairs and throw the wine bottle against the exposed brick.
I turned around, walked silently back to the master bedroom, and shut the door behind me. Stuart was still in the shower, singing a fragment of a song under the rush of hot water.
I walked over to my vanity, pulled out my encrypted work laptop, and slid into the wingback chair by the window. I opened my personal secure terminal and logged into the corporate architecture of Kavanaugh Strategy Group.
Eight years ago, Stuart had begged my father for four hundred and twenty thousand dollars to launch an independent corporate advisory firm. My father, a retired forensic accountant who had survived three recessions, had agreed on one non-negotiable condition: my name remained on the state charter as the sole 100% equity holder and sole managing member until every penny of principal plus six percent interest was repaid.
Stuart had drawn a handsome salary of two hundred and forty thousand dollars a year as president. But he had never repaid the principal note. He had deferred it year after year, claiming cash flow had to be reinvested into branding, personnel, and expansion.
I opened the master administrative permissions.
I clicked on ‘Banking and Treasury Approvals.’
Then I opened the secondary credit line ledger.
On the screen glowed the unauthorized American Express Black card Stuart had secretly issued under his corporate umbrella for Barbara, along with the corporate expense card assigned to Tatum Ellery.
My fingers moved across the keyboard with algorithmic precision.
I didn't shed a single tear. The woman who had wept on the ultrasound table was dead, buried under the weight of three callous sentences. The woman sitting in the dark was the majority shareholder and the sole owner of the roof over their heads.
I initiated a complete, unannounced executive forensic audit, routed all administrative authorization keys to a newly created offline hardware token, and drafted three emails scheduled to execute at precisely 8:15 AM on Thursday morning—the exact minute their flight was scheduled to push back from the tarmac at Philadelphia International Airport.
Then I closed the laptop, slipped into bed, and pulled the duvet up to my chin. When Stuart finally emerged from the steam, smelling of another woman’s favorite cologne, he turned off the bedside lamp and climbed under the covers without touching me.
May you like
“Sleep well, Evie,” he murmured, his voice already heavy with impending sleep. “Everything will look brighter next week.”
“Yes, Stuart,” I whispered into the quiet dark. “Everything certainly will.”
