Chapter 3

The next day was my regular follow-up appointment.

For three years, Adrian had cleared his calendar once a month to accompany me to Dr. Carter, one of the country's leading neuropsychologists.

He had promised that even if it took the rest of his life, he would cure my condition.

At eight that morning, I changed and went downstairs.

Adrian was putting on his coat in the foyer. Natalie clung to his side.

His hands paused when he saw me.

"Take a cab to the clinic."

He avoided my eyes and adjusted his cufflinks.

"Natalie had nightmares all night. I'm taking her to Dr. Carter for an emergency counseling session."

I looked at him in silence.

"I booked that appointment two weeks ago. My follow-up can't be rescheduled."

Natalie shrank behind Adrian.

"I'm sorry, Clara. I'm just so scared. Every time I close my eyes, I see fire. You've been in treatment for years and it hasn't helped. One more day won't matter, will it?"

Adrian shifted in front of her protectively. His tone allowed no argument.

"Could you be reasonable for once? Your condition is incurable. That appointment is nothing but the same routine questions. Natalie's case is urgent, and Dr. Carter is the best. She needs him first."

He paused, then softened his voice, offering compensation in the only language he understood.

"I had my assistant transfer half a million dollars into your account. Go buy something you like. Be good. Don't make this difficult."

I studied the face of the man who had made me countless promises.

"What if I say no?"

His expression darkened at once.

He crossed the foyer, seized my uninjured left wrist, and squeezed hard enough to grind bone against bone.

"I wasn't asking permission. You're a mannequin. You could see a hundred therapists and still never shed a tear. Stop wasting an appointment someone else actually needs."

He flung my hand aside, wrapped an arm around Natalie's shoulders, and walked out without looking back.

I stood there, staring at the door he slammed behind them.

The burn on my right hand had split open from the strain. Bright drops of blood struck the floor.

I did not bandage it.

Instead, I opened a hidden email account on my phone.

An invitation to join a clinical study at a leading neuroscience institute in Geneva waited in my inbox.

Three years ago, I had rejected its clinical trial to stay with Adrian.

Now I opened the reply and typed one word.

Accepted.

That afternoon, I went to the hospital alone to have my dressing changed.

When I returned, I passed the living room trash can.

My anniversary tracker lay among coffee grounds and crumpled tissues, its screen still shattered.

Adrian was back, working on his laptop from the couch. When he saw what I was looking at, he barely glanced up.

"It's a piece of broken electronics. The housekeeper threw it out. There's a new one on the table. Put it on."

The anniversary tracker he had once called proof of our love was smeared with garbage.

I faced him.

"Adrian, we're done."

His fingers froze over the keyboard.

He looked up as though I had told an absurd joke. A mocking smile touched his mouth.

"Done? You don't even know what love is. Don't imitate normal people by threatening a breakup. Stop acting out. I'm busy."

He lowered his eyes to the screen and dismissed me completely.