Chapter 5
She left it anyway.
After she walked away, I called over one of the event staff.
“Could you put this in an envelope?”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitaker.”
“Address it to Graham.”
At 12:06 a.m., exactly eight years and six hours after Graham and I had exchanged anniversary gifts that morning, we entered our apartment.
He removed his jacket.
I removed my heels.
For a few seconds, we behaved like any exhausted married couple returning from an event.
Then Graham saw the suitcase beside the staircase.
He stopped.
“Whose is that?”
“Mine.”
His face changed.
“Don't.”
I almost smiled.
“Don't what?”
“Make a permanent decision tonight.”
“You made permanent decisions for months.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
“I do now.”
He approached.
I held up one hand.
He stopped.
That was new.
“I'm sorry.”
I waited.
“For Celeste.”
I said nothing.
“For the foundation.”
Still nothing.
“For lying.”
He swallowed.
“For making you feel like you disappeared.”
My throat tightened.
“Feel?”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“For making you disappear.”
Better.
Not enough.
But better.
“I convinced myself you had stopped caring.”
“I hadn't.”
“I know.”
“I stopped fighting you.”
“Yes.”
“There's a difference.”
“I know that now.”
I looked at him.
Then asked the question I had been waiting all night to ask.
“If I didn't control Hartwell, would you be standing here apologizing?”
His face changed.
That was my answer.
“Evelyn.”
“Think carefully.”
“I don't need to.”
“Then answer.”
“Yes.”
Too fast.
I shook my head.
“Again.”
He stared at me.
I waited.
Seconds passed.
His shoulders dropped.
And when Graham finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I don't know.”
There.
Truth.
Ugly.
Late.
But truth.
I nodded.
“Thank you.”
His eyes filled.
“For what?”
“For finally respecting me enough not to lie.”
“Evelyn, please.”
I picked up my suitcase.
He stepped toward me.
“Where are you going?”
“The Carlyle.”
“For how long?”
“I don't know.”
“Are you filing for divorce?”
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
The word changed the room.
Graham went completely still.
“No.”
It was almost instinctive.
“You don't get to veto it.”
“I'm asking you not to.”
“I know.”
“Eight years, Evelyn.”
“Yes.”
“You can't end eight years in one night.”
“I didn't.”
My voice broke for the first time.
“You ended it slowly.”
That silenced him.
I carried the suitcase toward the door.
“Was any of it real?”
I stopped.
I looked back.