For several seconds, he stood by the windows with his phone still in his hand, staring down at the glittering streets of Manhattan. Rain crossed the glass in restless lines. Taxi headlights moved below like small, determined stars.
Then he turned.
“Evelyn?”
No answer.
The candles had burned low, wax pooling around silver holders. The roses had begun to bow. The anniversary dinner sat untouched, beautiful and cold, like a display in a restaurant window after closing.
Grant looked toward the stairs.
“Evie?”
He had not called me that in months.
Maybe longer.
He crossed the dining room slowly, irritation arriving first because irritation was easier than fear.
Then his shoe struck something small.
A soft metallic sound touched the marble.
He looked down.
My wedding ring lay beside my chair.
Grant stared at it.
For a moment, he did not move. He simply stood over the diamond he had once chosen with such certainty, the ring he had slipped onto my finger in front of everyone we loved, the ring he assumed would always return to its place no matter how carelessly he treated the hand that wore it.
Then he bent down.
His fingers closed around it.
Cold.
That was what he would remember later. How cold it felt.
He searched the kitchen first. Then the library. Then the bedroom. My closet doors stood open. One drawer was half empty. The phone I had left behind rested on the dresser, dark and unreachable.
Beside it was the envelope.
Grant tore it open with hands that had negotiated hostile mergers without trembling.
My letter was short.
Grant,
You once told me I was the only thing you never wanted to lose.
Tonight, you laughed and said you could always marry again.
