Chapter 10

The divorce papers were sitting on my bedside table.

Unlocked.

Elliot cleaned the bedroom every day. Maybe he'd seen them. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd seen them and was pretending not to—waiting for me to bring them out first.

My lawyer told me if I wanted to move quickly, getting the other party to sign a mutual agreement was the better route.

"Going to court means years."

Getting Elliot to agree to an uncontested divorce seemed nearly impossible. So I'd been building a litigation case from the start.

"Why are you advising me now?"

My lawyer smiled.

"You seem more ready than before."

I held my smile and said nothing.

Back home, Elliot had made a full dinner.

"You said you'd be back tonight, so I left the office early. I bought a whole fish—something I haven't cooked in ages. It took some effort."

I looked at the table laid with care, and something heavy settled in me.

"Thank you."

He blinked—like the word had surprised him. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. "My hands are still dirty. Let me wash up. We'll eat."

Dinner was quiet.

Elliot got up and took the dishes to the kitchen. He asked if I wanted to see a movie.

"There's that film we watched in college on your laptop. It's being rereleased this week—proper cinema quality now. Didn't you always say you owed yourself a real ticket for it?"

The tap was running. His voice came through muffled, but his tone was light.

I took a slow breath.

"Elliot—there's something I've been meaning to say."

His back went rigid.

He turned off the tap. Left the dishes in the sink. Turned to face me, expression managed, words coming fast.

"I found the new space—they're already fitting it out. I sent you the design plans weeks ago. Have you looked at them? They're really quite nice..." He looked down. His voice thickened slightly. "I'll be busy again soon, have to stay on top of the renovation myself..."

He rambled for another minute, dried his hands, said he had something to deal with, and left.

I sat alone in the apartment for a long time. I found the film he'd mentioned and watched it all the way through.

The end credits were still rolling.

I moved the divorce papers from the bedside table to his desk in the study.

But from that night on, Elliot didn't come home.

What I hadn't expected was seeing Natasha at work—in my own music appreciation class.

"Ms. Hartley. It's been a while."

I was still at the front of the room. Before I'd said a word, she greeted me—openly, without any pretense.

The way she looked at me told me she'd come for me.

After class, she came to the front.

"Ms. Hartley, can we connect on Instagram? That way I can reach you whenever I have questions."

Other students were still filing out, glancing over at us.

I met her eyes for a moment, then followed her.

The program was technically for working adults without formal training, but admission required an interview—most of the students had some background in the field.

I went to find the department head.

She was surprised. "She was recommended by Elliot? You didn't know?"

I stood there.

Outside, I called him immediately. He didn't pick up. I kept calling. He finally answered.

"Why did you put her in my class?" I was barely keeping my voice level.

"That was weeks ago. She said she wanted to experience campus life, so I put in a word..." He caught the edge in my voice. "What's wrong?"

He could tell something was off.

I was crouched behind one of the teaching buildings, back against the wall, gripping my phone, eyes blurring.

"Elliot—do you have even the slightest respect for me?"

"I didn't mean to—"

"Why would you bring her into my work?" I couldn't hold it anymore. The tears came. My voice broke. "You left this university. I still work here. I have colleagues. I have supervisors. Even if you don't love me anymore—could you not do this to me? Do you know how this looks? Do you even care how it looks?"

I was shaking, fingers twisted in my hair.

"Your work is demanding, your work is stressful—I understand all of that. Mine apparently means nothing. So why—why did you have to bring her here—"

Elliot offered to have Natasha drop the course. I said no.

If she withdrew now, the department head would start connecting the dots. Our whole situation would become departmental gossip.

All I could do was quietly step back from as many shared sessions as possible.

Even then, I couldn't avoid her completely.

In one of the practical sessions, she sat down at the piano and played—brilliantly. The other students were visibly impressed.

She stood, turned toward me, and smiled.

"My boyfriend taught me. What do you think, Ms. Hartley?"

In front of the whole class. A direct challenge.

I kept my face calm. "Very good."

After class, when the room had emptied, I was gathering my things when she came to stand in front of me.

"When are you going to divorce him?"

I looked up at her. "Is there something in it for me?"

"There is. You've checked his hotel records and come up empty, haven't you?"

I said nothing.

Natasha half-smiled, one hand braced against the edge of the lectern, stepping lightly up.

"Have you ever been somewhere with nothing in it—just cold lines—where the only way to stand is to find something to hold onto? Supports everywhere, all along the walls. You pick one, and give yourself over completely. And in doing that, you also take complete control."

I had no idea what she was talking about.

She dismissed it with a light smile.

"Ms. Hartley, you're beautiful, your career is solid and respectable. If people found out your husband was sleeping with one of your students—how would you face coming to work? Your parents work in academia too, don't they? Could they handle the gossip?"

She was threatening me. Using my job, and my parents' reputations.

I didn't know what to say. Tell her I'd wanted out of this marriage for months, that Elliot's the one who won't sign?

What would it matter? She was still threatening me. And using my parents against me.

I could find another job. But my parents were nearly retired. Having their names dragged through this—

"I—" I started to speak.

A voice cut in from across the room, flat and hard.

"If I posted everything I have on you—your arrangement, your side-piece status, your handwritten apology letter—you'd be finished at this school too. I have videos. Photos. Enough to keep posting for three straight days."

Natasha spun around, like she'd seen a ghost.

"Mr. Kingsley?"