I sold the house in 72 hours, packed four suitcases, and vanished from the United States before they realized I had finally woken up. They thought that secret trip was just a fun week to lock me out of my own life. But they forgot that the overlooked learn to be cruel by taking away exactly what is coveted. When they dragged their luggage home, I would not be there. They would find a strange lock and a timed email.
My name is Skyla Brown, and at thirty-four years old, I was still naïve enough to believe that a perfect saffron rosé could repair a fracturing relationship. I stood in the center of the kitchen my grandmother Margot had left me, listening to the wind whip off the Atlantic and rattle the shingle siding of the house. This old place in Beacon Harbor, Massachusetts, was built to withstand hurricanes, but I was beginning to feel like the structural integrity of my own life was far less reinforced. It was supposed to be the third anniversary of our engagement. Not our wedding—just the engagement. The actual date for the marriage kept sliding, pushed back by Evan’s career ambitions or my family’s sudden, frantic needs.
But tonight, I had decided, would be different. I had left my office at North Lake Biomedical Logistics two hours early, ignoring a pile of supply chain compliance reports, just to marinate the scallops and set the table with the heavy silver candlesticks that usually stayed wrapped in velvet. The clock on the wall read 7:45 in the evening. The risotto was turning into a gluey paste in the pot. The bottle of Cabernet I had opened an hour ago was breathing itself into vinegar when my phone finally buzzed against the granite countertop. The vibration sounded like a drill in the silence.
It was Evan.
I wiped my damp hands on my apron and swiped to answer, forcing a brightness into my voice that I did not feel. “Hey you,” I said. “I was just about to—”
“Sky. Listen, I am so sorry.” Evan’s voice was clipped, breathless. Background noise roared behind him, the unmistakable hollow echo of a terminal. “I’m not going to make it. In fact, I’m at Logan right now.”
My stomach dropped so hard I felt nauseous. “What? Evan, it’s our anniversary. You’re at the airport?”
“I know. I know, baby. It’s a nightmare. The Cleveland deal with the hospital group is falling apart. The regional director demanded I fly out tonight to salvage the contract or we lose the whole commission. You know how important this is for us. For the future.”
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