The research fellowship in Switzerland would last for four years. The director had emailed twice already, eager for me to start by fall. Four years abroad. Far from James. Far from Vicky. I sent “Accept” before I could overthink it.

Last night played on repeat in my mind. I’d actually considered—just one last time—initiating something with James. A final memory to take with me. But he’d spent the evening with Vicky, probably whispering sweet nothings under the moon.

That’s the difference between love and…whatever this is.

What I couldn’t understand was how a man could feign desire so convincingly for someone he didn’t love. To prevent a repeat of last night’s humiliation, I decided to clear out my things today. Three weeks until the divorce was finalized. Three weeks of avoiding this house.

Most of my life was already at campus housing—just one suitcase of clothes here. The only personal item was the photo album in the nightstand.

I flipped through the thick leather cover. Every month like clockwork, I’d dragged James to a photo studio. Me smiling like an idiot. Him stiff as a statue, looking anywhere but at the camera.

The album landed in the trash bin with a thud. Even the recycling truck wouldn’t want this tainted love story.

For years, I’d been an audience member in James Moretti’s life. Now the curtain had fallen. Time to make my exit.

The next two weeks blurred with thesis revisions and lab work. I barely thought of James—until his call interrupted my Friday research meeting.

“I’m outside your lab,” his voice crackled through the phone.

Since when does James Moretti play chauffeur?

His black sedan idled at the curb. I slid into the leather seat, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne and gun oil.

“You haven’t been home.” His eyes stayed on the road.

“Lab’s busy.”