He studied me for half a second, then nodded. He knew resolve when he saw it.
By noon, photographers had documented every gleaming surface of the penthouse. By afternoon, representatives of an overseas buyer had toured it. They loved the art, the view, the furniture, the urgency.
By evening, an all-cash offer sat in my inbox.
I signed without hesitation.
Over the next two days, I moved like someone clearing out a crime scene. Not chaotic. Not emotional. Efficient. I packed my clothes, passport, jewelry, and the few meaningful things I refused to surrender to that chapter of my life. Everything else I left behind. I was not dismantling a home. I was shedding skin.
Then I went into Ethan’s closet.
I didn’t ruin anything. No bleach. No scissors. No broken watches.
I got three industrial black garbage bags from the pantry and calmly filled them with every suit, every robe, every dress shoe, every leather box that held the symbols of the man he believed himself to be. I tied each one tightly and left them by the front door.
Thursday afternoon, my secure banking app lit up.
The wire had cleared.