Chapter 7
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The coastal air in San Diego was thick with moisture, so different from the dry New York spring I’d left behind.
That clinging humidity wasn’t unpleasant–it felt like a completely new experience, wrapping around me like a warm blanket, reminding me with each breath that I was somewhere Ethan had never been, somewhere he couldn’t find me.
Each day, I wandered the city aimlessly, exploring one street after another with no particular destination. For the first time in my adult life, I had no schedule to keep, no one’s expectations to meet but my own.
Passing a small coffee shop called “Tide & Grounds” with a “Barista Wanted” sign in the window, I pushed the door open on impulse.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked out with a job, grinning like I’d won the lottery. I’d earned my barista certification years ago but never had the chance to use it. Another dream Ethan had dismissed with a wave of his hand: “My wife doesn’t need to work in some coffee shop. What would people think?”
My parents were wealthy, and I’d been entirely focused on being the perfect wife
to Ethan.
My father had pulled strings for Ethan’s investment banking career, and I was terrified of not catering to his every need. Even when those needs had nothing to do with me and everything to do with maintaining his pristine image at the country club.
But years of walking on eggshells had only led to one humiliation after another. Ethan had once wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a police.
officer.
But Patricia’s tearful pleas had won out: “I’ve already lost your father. I can’t lose
you too.”
He’d studied finance in college instead, smoothly transitioning into a lucrative career after graduation.
My father had called in nearly every favor he was owed to ensure Ethan’s success. Yet every time Ethan returned from a business dinner, he’d glare at me with cold
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contempt.
“Your family sure knows how to make me feel like a charity case.”
More than once, he’d thrown the question in my face: “Olivia, who owes whom here? Do you owe me, or do I owe you?”
In these tangled accusations, I understood he didn’t want to love me.
And he never would.
But like the curfew, and like the way he was still calling me from unknown
numbers, he wouldn’t love me, but he wouldn’t let me go either.
What was the point of his possessiveness if not possession?
While steaming milk at the coffee shop, the familiar hiss and bubble creating a rhythm I found soothing, my hands developed a muscle memory my brain couldn’t yet match. The silky microfoam I created reminded me how quickly the body could. learn new things when given permission. My manager, a forty–something woman. with sleeve tattoos and laugh lines around her eyes, nodded approvingly as I poured a perfect rosetta.
“You’re a natural,” she said, and something warm bloomed in my chest–pride, maybe, or just the simple pleasure of being good at something that was entirely mine. The feeling was so unfamiliar it took me a moment to recognize it, this sensation of achievement without Ethan’s shadow hanging over it.
As I wiped down the steam wand, my mind wandered back to our apartment in New York. To the nights I’d wake up to find him standing in the doorway of our bedroom, just watching me sleep. Not with tenderness, but with something darker that made my skin prickle with unease. I’d pretend to be asleep, my body. instinctively tensing under the sheets, watching through barely–open eyes as his silhouette leaned against the doorframe.
Sometimes, when he thought I was sleeping, he’d approach the bed, his weight making the mattress dip. He’d run a finger along my bare shoulder, down my arm, a touch that should have been intimate but instead felt like he was appraising something he owned. Once, his hand had slipped beneath the covers, touching
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e gasp with..
places that once made me gasp with pleasure but now only made me hold my breath, hoping he’d mistake my stillness for deep sleep. He’d whisper things against my neck, his breath hot with whiskey–sometimes tender words that never
came when I was awake, sometimes cruel ones that cut deeper in the darkness. Eventually, he’d sigh, mutter something under his breath like “It should have been you who died that day,” and leave. I’d keep my breathing steady, my eyes closed, but tears would escape down my cheeks. He’d see them, I know he did, but he’d just turn and walk away. Those were the nights I’d lock the bathroom door and cry silently in the shower, water masking my tears, wondering how wanting someone so badly could turn into fearing their touch.
To Ethan, I was probably just an unwanted stain on his perfect life–like
accidentally spilling coffee on a white shirt.
Everything bad in his life was blamed on me, even if it was just bad luck or
circumstance.
Understanding this finally brought me peace. I was no longer angry at myself. Kate Matthews had been like a guillotine hanging over my marriage.
I’d always feared when she might reappear, but now that she had, I felt strangely
relieved.
From the moment I saw them together at my birthday dinner, I knew I no longer
loved him–if I ever truly had.
The weeks of paperwork and mandatory court processing flew by. Once my lawyer confirmed everything was final, I booked a return flight to New York.
The moment I stepped off the plane, a hand roughly grabbed my arm.
My suitcase was yanked from my grasp as Ethan practically dragged me toward
the exit.
“I thought you’d run away for good,” he muttered, not looking back as he pulled
me along.
