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Chapter 3: The Asset Liquidation

I didn’t stay upstate. I needed to return to the city to liquidate my life before my connecting flight to Milan.

When my plane landed in Manhattan at 2:00 PM, I didn’t text Nolan. I took a black car straight to the premier real estate brokerage in the financial district.

“Ms. Hayes, are you absolutely certain you want to list this luxury penthouse?” The senior broker looked at the property deed, his tone shocked. “This apartment is in a prime location. According to the records, you just finished a massive, custom renovation less than six months ago.”

“I am absolutely certain,” I said, taking a sip of water. “My only requirement is a full-cash buyer, and I need the transaction expedited immediately. To secure the cash, list it at fifteen percent below market value.”

The broker’s eyes lit up with predatory glee. “Ms. Hayes, at that price point with a cash requirement, I guarantee I will have a buyer locked and funds wired within the week.”

I had bought that penthouse in full, with my own money, before I ever met Nolan. The title deed was exclusively in my name. But because Nolan had moved in, he casually referred to it as “our honeymoon home,” assuming it was joint property by proxy.

After signing the irrevocable power of attorney for the sale, I walked out of the brokerage.

Directly across the street was the botanical garden restaurant we had booked for our wedding rehearsal. The entire exterior glass wall was currently surrounded by a massive sea of imported pink Ecuadorian roses.

Nolan had bought out a luxury florist, having the roses flown in overnight.

I stood on the sidewalk, watching silently. Two months ago, I had casually mentioned to Nolan how much I loved pink roses. He had promised me that on our wedding day, I would be surrounded by an ocean of them.

Now, the ocean was here. But the bride had changed.

I crossed the street and stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, a private “rehearsal” was taking place.

Maya, wearing a white cocktail dress, stood in the center of a petal-strewn stage. Nolan, wearing his custom-tailored groom’s tuxedo, stood opposite her.

“Nolan, this ring is stunning, but it’s a little loose on me,” Maya pouted, holding up her right hand.

Sparkling on her ring finger was my engagement ring. The ring I had designed. The ring that had my initials and Nolan’s engraved on the inside band.

Nolan took her hand, examining it closely. “It is a bit big. That’s okay, I’ll have the jeweler size it down for you tomorrow.”

“Really? But isn’t this your wedding ring for Clara?” Maya bit her lip, looking aggressively innocent.

“It’s fine,” Nolan’s voice drifted through the slightly open patio door. “Clara is too practical for this elaborate style anyway. I’ll buy her a simpler, cheaper band later. Consider this one a graduation gift for you, Maya. Congratulations on growing up.”

He fondly patted her head.

I stood outside the glass. My breathing didn’t even hitch. I pulled out my phone and texted him.

“Is my wedding ring ready yet? The jeweler emailed me yesterday saying it was ready for pickup.”

Through the glass, I saw Nolan’s phone light up in his pocket. He pulled it out, read the text, and his brow furrowed in irritation. He dropped his hand from Maya’s head and typed a one-handed reply.

“They had to do a final polish. It might be delayed two days. Don’t worry about the details, Clara. Just enjoy the countryside.”

I looked at the text, chuckled softly, and put my phone away. I didn’t walk inside to ruin their “rehearsal.” I turned on my heel, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address to my penthouse.

When I pushed open the heavy oak door of my apartment, the living room was silent.

On the custom shoe rack by the entryway, my cream-colored Prada loafers were gone. In their place sat a pair of cheap, pink fuzzy slippers with rabbit ears.

They were the exact same slippers Maya had posted on her Instagram story two days ago. The caption had read: “Someone knows my feet get cold, so they bought me these! So warm!”

I bypassed the slippers and walked into the living room. On the marble coffee table sat a set of unfamiliar, cheap pink ceramic mugs. Our expensive matching espresso cups had been shoved into a bottom drawer.

I pushed open the door to the master suite.

On my custom vanity, my La Mer skincare had been aggressively shoved to the corner to make room for a chaotic pile of cheap drugstore makeup. The walk-in closet door was ajar, revealing several brightly colored, juvenile slip dresses hanging where my tailored blazers usually sat.

I walked down the hall to the guest bedroom.

My clothes, my architectural books, and my personal items had all been packed into cardboard moving boxes and shoved into the corner.

Nolan had already prepared his excuse, I was sure. The guest bedroom faced north, meaning less sunlight. He knew I loved natural light. He would undoubtedly spin this as a selfless act: giving the sunny master bedroom to Maya to “help her study” was exactly the kind of generous thing his accommodating fiancée would agree to.

I didn’t touch the cardboard boxes. I walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of iced water, and waited.

Ten minutes later, the electronic lock on the front door chimed.

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