Chapter 3
The morning I left, Lily found me packing.
She stood in my bedroom doorway in her unicorn pajamas, holding her rabbit by one ear, her face a crumpled question.
"Ivy? Where are you going?"
My chest collapsed.
I knelt. Pulled her into my arms. She smelled like strawberry shampoo—the one I special-ordered because regular brands made her skin itch.
"I have to go away for a while, sweetheart."
"Why?" Her lip trembled. "Did I do something bad?"
"No. No, baby. You're perfect. You're so perfect."
"Then why are you leaving?" Her small hands fisted in my shirt. "You promised you'd come to my recital. You PROMISED."
I had promised. Two months ago, when she'd started piano lessons, terrified. I'd sat beside her on the bench, guided her tiny fingers. Told her I'd be in the front row.
"I know I did. And I'm—" My voice cracked. First time. "I'm so sorry, Lily."
She started crying. Not the dramatic tears of a child's tantrum—the quiet, devastating tears of a little girl who'd already lost her parents and was learning that people leave.
I held her until Damien appeared.
"Lily. Go to your room."
His voice. That commanding, emotionless CEO voice he used on everyone—employees, board members, his five-year-old niece who was breaking apart in my arms.
"Don't talk to her like that," I said. Still kneeling. Still holding his niece. "She's scared."
"She'll be fine. Victoria's coming Friday—"
"Victoria doesn't know her bedtime routine. Doesn't know she's allergic to strawberry scented things but loves the taste. Doesn't know she needs the hallway light on AND the door cracked exactly three inches—"
"She'll learn."
I looked up at him. Standing over us in his perfect suit, checking his watch, calculating how many minutes this emotional inconvenience was costing his schedule.
"You don't deserve her," I said. "You don't deserve either of us."
Something flickered across his face. Gone before I could name it.
Lily clung to me. I peeled her fingers away—gently, each one a knife in my chest—and kissed her forehead.
"I love you," I whispered. "Always. No matter what."
I stood. Walked past Damien with my one suitcase.
At the front door, I stopped.
"The Q3 restructuring—page forty-seven has an error in the tax allocation. Fix it before the board meeting Tuesday or you'll lose the Singapore deal."
"Ivy—"
"Goodbye, Damien."
I closed the door on the sound of Lily crying.
The taxi was still waiting. I got in. Gave the address.
And then—only then—I broke.
Silent. Violent. Tears that came from somewhere deeper than heartbreak. The grief of a woman mourning a child who wasn't hers, a life that wasn't real, a love that was never meant to survive the contract that created it.
The driver said nothing. Handed me a tissue through the partition.
London passed outside. Grey. Blurred. Indifferent.
I was free.
It felt like dying.
She stood in my bedroom doorway in her unicorn pajamas, holding her rabbit by one ear, her face a crumpled question.
"Ivy? Where are you going?"
My chest collapsed.
I knelt. Pulled her into my arms. She smelled like strawberry shampoo—the one I special-ordered because regular brands made her skin itch.
"I have to go away for a while, sweetheart."
"Why?" Her lip trembled. "Did I do something bad?"
"No. No, baby. You're perfect. You're so perfect."
"Then why are you leaving?" Her small hands fisted in my shirt. "You promised you'd come to my recital. You PROMISED."
I had promised. Two months ago, when she'd started piano lessons, terrified. I'd sat beside her on the bench, guided her tiny fingers. Told her I'd be in the front row.
"I know I did. And I'm—" My voice cracked. First time. "I'm so sorry, Lily."
She started crying. Not the dramatic tears of a child's tantrum—the quiet, devastating tears of a little girl who'd already lost her parents and was learning that people leave.
I held her until Damien appeared.
"Lily. Go to your room."
His voice. That commanding, emotionless CEO voice he used on everyone—employees, board members, his five-year-old niece who was breaking apart in my arms.
"Don't talk to her like that," I said. Still kneeling. Still holding his niece. "She's scared."
"She'll be fine. Victoria's coming Friday—"
"Victoria doesn't know her bedtime routine. Doesn't know she's allergic to strawberry scented things but loves the taste. Doesn't know she needs the hallway light on AND the door cracked exactly three inches—"
"She'll learn."
I looked up at him. Standing over us in his perfect suit, checking his watch, calculating how many minutes this emotional inconvenience was costing his schedule.
"You don't deserve her," I said. "You don't deserve either of us."
Something flickered across his face. Gone before I could name it.
Lily clung to me. I peeled her fingers away—gently, each one a knife in my chest—and kissed her forehead.
"I love you," I whispered. "Always. No matter what."
I stood. Walked past Damien with my one suitcase.
At the front door, I stopped.
"The Q3 restructuring—page forty-seven has an error in the tax allocation. Fix it before the board meeting Tuesday or you'll lose the Singapore deal."
"Ivy—"
"Goodbye, Damien."
I closed the door on the sound of Lily crying.
The taxi was still waiting. I got in. Gave the address.
And then—only then—I broke.
Silent. Violent. Tears that came from somewhere deeper than heartbreak. The grief of a woman mourning a child who wasn't hers, a life that wasn't real, a love that was never meant to survive the contract that created it.
The driver said nothing. Handed me a tissue through the partition.
London passed outside. Grey. Blurred. Indifferent.
I was free.
It felt like dying.