Chapter 4Frozen Hearts Do Not Thaw

It was nearly eleven when I got back.

I pulled the suitcase out from the back of the closet and began packing the last of my things.

My passport, some documents, a few changes of clothes. The suitcase was small, but I didn’t have much I wanted to take with me anyway.

Midway through packing, the front door opened. Elliott was back.

I quickly slid the suitcase back into the closet and pulled the coats over it.

He pushed the bedroom door open and leaned against the frame, watching me.

"Are you still mad?"

I didn't turn around. "No."

"Norah," he said, walking into the room, his voice tinged with irritation. "I only said those things because you crossed a line with Bella. You know what happened to her sister, yet you still go out of your way to hurt her—"

"I understand," I interrupted him. "I shouldn't have said it."

He paused, clearly taken aback by how easily I conceded.

Usually, after an argument, I’d cry, throw questions at him, and let it drag out. Tonight, I was entirely placid.

He studied me for a long moment, his eyes scanning the bedroom.

The bookshelf was lighter. The vanity table looked sparser.

"What are you packing up?"

My heart fluttered.

"Just rotating my wardrobe for the season. Putting away the heavy things."

He didn't press further, turning on his heel toward the bathroom.

I let out a slow breath and slipped my passport deep into my purse.

The next day, I went to the office to finalize my departure.

When I returned, Elliott wasn't home, so I decided to cook one last dinner.

Braised ribs, sautéed greens, and melon soup.

He arrived at seven. Seeing the spread, he raised an eyebrow.

"Is it my birthday or something?"

"Just had some free time," I replied.

He sat down and took a few bites, his mood lifting.

He probably thought the incident from last night was behind us, that I was "once again" bowing my head to keep the peace.

Halfway through the meal, he said, "Bella's birthday is next week. Don't say things like that to her again."

"Okay."

"If you apologize to her, we can just put this behind us."

"Okay."

He nodded, satisfied, and reached for another rib.

After dinner, he went to his study to handle emails while I washed the dishes, wiping down the counters until they shone.

At nine-thirty, I went into the study to grab my charger.

Elliott looked up from his screen. "What's that folder on your desk?"

My chest tightened.

On the desk lay a clear plastic sleeve containing my transfer confirmation, which I’d brought home that afternoon.

"Just work stuff," I said, picking it up. "Final project handovers."

He muttered a vague sound and looked back at his monitor.

I slipped the folder into my bag, my palms slick with sweat.

That was close.

By eleven, he was asleep.

I stood by the bed, watching him for a long time.

I remembered our first year of marriage, how he used to kiss my forehead before sleeping and whisper, Goodnight, sweetheart. He had loved me then.

But after Hannah died, that love twisted into resentment, a slow punishment. He had pushed me away again and again, always certain that no matter how far he threw me, I’d still come back.

I quietly pulled my suitcase from the closet, zipped it closed, and walked to the living room.

I laid the signed divorce papers on the coffee table.

Next to them, I left a small note:

I had nothing to do with what happened to Hannah. Believe me or don't—it's up to you. But this time, I’m truly leaving. Take care.

I slid my wedding ring off my finger and set it on top of the note.

At four in the morning, I rolled my suitcase to the front door.

I took one last, long look at the apartment.

Then, I closed the door quietly behind me.

...

At seven, Elliott woke up to find my side of the bed cold.

He walked out to the kitchen to get some water and noticed the papers on the coffee table.

He picked them up and scanned them. A divorce agreement.

He let out a small laugh. "Again?"

He tossed them onto the couch and pulled out his phone. Stop playing games. Just come home.

The message failed to deliver. Norah has enabled friend verification.

He dialed my number.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

He froze.

Running into the bedroom, he yanked open the closet doors. It was half-empty.

In the bathroom, all my skincare, my toothbrush, everything was gone.

He walked back to the living room, picking up the papers, the note, and the gold band resting on it.

His hands began to shake.

He frantically called my office.

"Norah? She finalized her resignation two days ago. She transferred to our South Carolina branch. Didn't you know?"

The memory of the plastic folder flashed in his mind.

Just work stuff. Final project handovers.

It had been her transfer confirmation.