Chapter 4

I put on my best white dress, applied some light makeup, and went to the dinner on time.

It was a Michelin-starred French restaurant with an incredible view, overlooking the city's sparkling skyline.

Chris had booked half the restaurant, and a beautifully wrapped, expensive gift sat in the center of the table.

He smiled, pulling out the chair for me.

"I know you took your vacation days just to come see me for our 1000-day anniversary."

"I'm sorry I ignored you these past few days. Tonight is just for the two of us."

He elegantly picked up his knife and fork, cutting my steak into perfect, bite-sized pieces.

His eyes were filled with so much love that even the violinist playing nearby looked at us with envy.

This genuine affection was the hardest thing for me to fight against. It was a slow, blunt knife.

Just as I picked up my fork, trying to accept his words as a final comfort, his phone rang.

The moment he saw the caller ID, the smile vanished from his face.

The panicked voice of Grace’s psychiatrist came through the speaker, so loud that even I could hear it.

"Miss Grace just slit her wrists! She's in the emergency room right now! Dr. Blair, you need to get here immediately!"

The cutlery slipped from Chris's hands, clattering loudly against the plate.

His face turned deathly pale. He stood up instantly, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of the chair.

He looked at me with guilt, but his eyes were filled with absolute determination.

"I’m so sorry, Chloe. Her life is on the line. I have to go."

"Take an Uber back to the mansion. I'll make it up to you tomorrow."

Before I could even speak, he had already stormed out of the restaurant.

I sat quietly in the luxurious dining room, staring at the perfectly cut steak, and suddenly felt a wave of pure absurdity.

If love only consists of "making things up to me," how is that any different from charity?

I didn't go back to the mansion.

In this city, twelve hundred miles away from my hometown, Chris only had to change the door code, and I would be homeless.

The rain outside grew heavier, and not a single light in this massive city belonged to me.

I tried calling Chris to tell him that my stomach was cramping so badly I couldn't walk.

He declined my call instantly, sending a cold text right after:

I'm outside the ICU right now. It's not convenient to talk.

Be a good girl and go back home to teach your classes.

Once I sort things out here, I’ll fly back to see you.

I stared at the screen as a wave of acid surged up my throat.

I crouched under the bus stop shelter, completely soaked by the pouring rain.

That was the moment I finally understood. In his mind, he believed I always had a safe, cozy home to retreat to.

Because of that, he assumed I would always be safe.

And because of that, he felt entirely comfortable hurting me.

In the middle of the night, I went back to the mansion.

The house was dark and completely empty.

Grace's antidepressant bottles were still sitting right in the middle of the coffee table.

I walked into the guest room and quietly packed my suitcase.

I packed my clothes and the lesson plans I had left in the study.

I cleaned up the room thoroughly, making sure not even a single strand of my hair was left in the bathroom.

I never belonged to this house anyway.

I came without a sound, and I left without a trace.

Before leaving, I pushed open the master bedroom door and took one last look at the bed we used to share.

I pulled a piece of paper from my bag.

It was the copy of my resignation letter.

I had planned to give it to him tonight, on our 1000th anniversary.

I wanted to tell him: "Chris, for you, I have become a wanderer in this city."

But now, I slowly tore the paper into tiny shreds, walked to the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet.

He would never deserve to know this secret.

The front door clicked shut.

I dragged my suitcase out into the late autumn rain.

At that moment, my phone lit up with a message from Chris:

She's out of danger.

Take care of yourself at home. Don't make me worry.