Chapter 9

Julian barely slept.

He sat in the living room of Scarlett's apartment and watched the night sky shift from black to grey to the pale, washed-out blue of early morning. Scarlett's breakdown at the exhibition, her screaming, her sobbing — and then Lily's face. That last look, before nothing.

At six in the morning, when he was finally certain Scarlett had cried herself to sleep, he left.

He drove back toward the estate.

The morning light was coming through the mist as he turned into the private road — soft gold on the carefully trimmed hedges, quiet and ordinary.

Then he came around the last bend.

Where the house should have been, there was fire.

Columns of black smoke tearing into the sky. Flames eating the upper floors. The air reeking of something that used to be his home.

The brakes screamed.

Julian was out of the car almost before it stopped moving, pushing toward the cordon — but two firefighters caught him and held him back with considerable effort.

"Sir — stay back! The structure's compromised. It could go at any moment—"

"Let go of me!" He was barely coherent. "My wife — she's in there — Lily—"

"We reviewed the security footage!" A firefighter with a respirator pushed closer, shouting over the roar. "The registered occupant — a Ms. Lily Ashford — left with luggage. There's nobody inside!"

Julian stopped fighting.

He stood there, gripped by something that had no name yet.

Then Margaret was pushing through the crowd toward him — hair wild, soot smeared across her face, shaking.

"Sir — she's gone. She left this for you…"

The housekeeper held out a small burgundy booklet with trembling hands.

Julian looked down.

When he saw the words on the cover, his pupils contracted.

Divorce Certificate.

The deep red cover felt scorching against his fingertips.

He opened it, almost on reflex.

Inside: yesterday's date.

And a photograph of Lily — she was smiling slightly, her expression the stillness of deep water. No grief. No anger. Not even a trace of bitterness.

That quiet smile drove into every piece of his self-assurance and broke it apart.

Three months of her silence. Her compliance. Her eerie, total peace.

He'd told himself it was strategy. That she was playing him. That she'd come around.

But she hadn't been playing him.

She'd been saying goodbye.

"Where is she?!" He grabbed Margaret's shoulders, his grip frantic. "When did she leave? Which direction—"

Margaret was already crying, hands fluttering helplessly. "I don't know — she told us all to take the day off. She had a suitcase. She stopped a cab… I couldn't — I couldn't stop her—"

Julian let go.

He took two steps backward, unsteady.

He pulled out his phone. Pressed the number that lived in his bones.

"The number you have dialled is no longer in service."

He called again.

"The number you have dialled is no longer in service."

Again.

And again.

The same mechanical voice, every single time.

He opened her contact on his messages app. Sent message after message. Each one came back flagged: undeliverable. Contact not found.

She'd deleted him.

She'd changed her number.

She'd cut every last wire between them.

She was gone. And she meant it.