Chapter 2

The movers set the last three boxes down in the new apartment.

Sienna's already on the sofa, flipping through a Vogue. She said she stopped by to walk her entrance routing for the maid-of-honor procession.

The TV is on. Midday news.

Sienna lifts a finger. Touches her own right ear.

Julian's out of the kitchen in two steps. The TV is off.

I'm in the hall, holding a box of books. I ask him at ordinary volume.

"Bookshelves in the master. Left wall or right wall?"

His back's to me. He's pouring Sienna room-temperature water. He doesn't turn.

I ask again. Louder.

He still doesn't turn.

Sienna takes the glass. Walks into the master bedroom. Sits on the edge of the bed. Looks up at the Murano floor lamp in the corner.

"That lamp's a little dim."

Half the volume of my question.

Julian is in the room within seconds. Reaches up. Takes the shade off.

That's a 1960s Venini. I sat on 1stDibs for an entire week to snipe it.

I follow him in.

"What are you doing to it?"

Julian reads Sienna's lips. Translates her silent line to me.

"The light's too dim. We'll swap it for something brighter."

Sienna shakes her head from the bed. "Really. It's fine. Don't switch it on my account."

Julian hands me the lamp.

"It's not a big deal, baby. Sienna has sensitive eyes. Pick another one. You're on 1stDibs every week anyway."

I don't answer.

I turn. Set the lamp inside a box that's already been packed shut by the door.

Later that afternoon a Bergdorf Goodman car pulls up on Marlborough Street. Two associates hang the bridal and bridesmaid pieces one by one on the rolling rack in our foyer.

Sienna tries the short bridesmaid dress. Stands in front of the full-length mirror.

Her eyes settle on her own right calf. A three-inch scar rides the outside of it, exposed by the hem.

Sienna touches the scar with a fingertip. Doesn't speak.

Julian's gaze follows her finger down. His brow tightens.

Sienna reaches for my reception gown hanging next to her—Oscar de la Renta, full train, two months of hand-embroidered custom work.

She lifts it. Holds it up against her own body.

"This length would cover it."

Julian turns to me. The tone he uses on subordinates.

"Sienna has that scar. The short cut doesn't work on her. Nora, switch to the alternate short one. Give her this."

He pauses. Reaches into his inside pocket. Pulls out a check. Three thousand.

"For your trouble. Buy yourself a new one."

The scar on my calf is three times the size of that fine line on hers.

The year he stepped into Ashford Holdings, he refused to be seen wearing a hearing aid—not in front of the family, not in front of rival houses. He carried the whole winter alone rather than expose the weakness. Wouldn't buy one for himself.

I liquidated the trust my grandmother left me. Placed the order for the implantable Phonak Lyric.

To hand it to him myself, I drove up from Newport overnight. Ninety-five was frozen through. My car went into the guardrail. My right calf was pinned by the crumpled door. Fourteen stitches.

That night, in the corridor at Mount Auburn, he held my leg and cried. Swore that from that day forward every inch of Ashford ground would carry my name on it. That on our wedding day he'd let all of Boston see Julian Ashford's wife in the longest, most exquisite gown the city had ever laid eyes on.

Three years later, he no longer remembers the scar on my leg.

I take the check.

The associate leads Sienna into the fitting room.

Julian watches the curtain fall. Turns. Pats my shoulder.

"You're the best, Nora. Nobody handles things the way you do."

I smile at him.

Open my phone. Pull up the licensing file on the customs pipeline registered to Ashford Holdings. Three patents. All in my individual name. Expiration: 9 a.m. tomorrow.

I don't renew.

Three termination notices. Signed one at a time. Sent to Ashford Holdings legal. CC'd to Julian's personal assistant.

Julian is outside the fitting-room curtain. He doesn't hear the send tone.

Sienna walks out of the fitting room in my reception gown. Train sweeping the floor. Embroidery catching the light.

Julian looks at her. His eyes light.

"Beautiful."

He has never said that word to me. Not once.

I save every delivery receipt to a folder.

New folder. I name it.

T-minus 2 days.