Chapter 4

The new apartment smelled like fresh paint and possibility.

I signed the lease on Monday morning, handed over the deposit, and walked out with keys that belonged to me alone. No joint account. No co-signer. Just my name on a piece of paper that felt more valuable than any engagement ring.

Linda had left a bottle of cheap champagne on the kitchen counter with a note: Congrats on your fresh start! I didn't open it. Instead, I spent the afternoon assembling furniture from IKEA, my hands blistered and aching, and felt more alive than I had in eight years.

My phone—the new one I'd bought after blocking Dominic's number—buzzed exactly twice that week. Once: my mother, asking if I'd eaten. Twice: a recruiter from a tech startup in Manhattan, offering an interview.

I took the interview. Got the job. Started the following Monday.

It was two weeks before I saw him again. I was coming out of a coffee shop in SoHo, balancing a latte and a croissant, when a black Bentley pulled up to the curb.

The window rolled down.

Dominic Cavallo looked like he hadn't slept in days. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol.

"Get in."

I kept walking.

The car rolled forward, keeping pace with me. Pedestrians stared. A mother pulled her child closer.

"Natalie. Get in the car."

"I'm busy."

"Busy." He laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "You've been busy for two weeks. Haven't returned a single call. Blocked my number. Moved out without a word." His voice dropped to something dangerous. "Do you have any idea what you've put me through?"

I stopped walking and turned to face him through the open window.

"Put you through?"

Something in my tone made his expression flicker. He got out of the car—ignoring the honking behind him—and stood on the sidewalk in his three-thousand-dollar suit, looking lost.

"I need to talk to you."

"No."

"Five minutes."

"I have a meeting."

"Cancel it."

I stared at him. At this man who'd spent eight years treating me like an inconvenience. Like furniture. Like something he could ignore until he needed it and expect it to still be there, waiting.

"You don't get to do this," I said quietly. "You don't get to ignore me for eight years and then demand my time the second I stop asking for yours."

His jaw tightened. "Get in the fucking car, Natalie."

A businessman walking past glanced nervously at Dominic, then hurried away. People crossed to the other side of the street. Because that's what you did when Dominic Cavallo raised his voice. You got out of the way.

But I'd been getting out of his way my whole life. Making myself smaller, quieter, less.

Not anymore.

"No," I said again, and walked away.

Behind me, I heard him curse—low and vicious—but he didn't follow.

The flowers arrived the next morning. Three dozen white roses, delivered to my new apartment. No card. No apology. Just a phone number I didn't recognize scrawled on the delivery receipt. I threw them in the dumpster and went to work.

The chocolates came the day after. Hand-wrapped truffles from that place in Belgium he knew I loved. I gave them to the receptionist.

On Thursday, he sent his driver—a stone-faced man named Tony who'd worked for the Cavallo family for thirty years.

"Mr. Cavallo requests your presence at dinner," Tony said, standing in my office doorway like he was delivering a summons from God himself.

My new boss, a woman named Sarah with purple streaks in her hair, raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going," I told Tony.

"Ma'am—"

"Tell him I said no."

Tony looked pained. "With respect, ma'am, that's not a message Mr. Cavallo receives often."

"Then it'll be good for him."

Sarah waited until Tony left before turning to me, eyes bright with curiosity. "Okay, I have to ask. Who is this guy? Ex-boyfriend?"

"Ex-something," I said, and left it at that.

Friday night, I went out with my new coworkers. Nothing fancy—just drinks at a dive bar in Brooklyn, the kind of place where the music was too loud and the beer was cheap and nobody cared if you laughed too loud or danced on the tables.

I did both.

Derek from accounting bought me a shot. Sarah challenged me to darts. By midnight, I was tipsy and happy and more myself than I'd been in years.

"You're glowing," Sarah said, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Seriously. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

I grinned. "Just living my life."

"Good." She clinked her beer against mine. "That ex of yours? Total loss. You're way too good for him."

She had no idea.

I was ordering another round when my phone buzzed. A text from the unknown number: Last chance. Dinner tomorrow. 8 PM. Don't make me come find you.

I deleted it without responding.

He found me anyway.

Saturday afternoon, I was grocery shopping—actually grocery shopping, not just picking up champagne and cigars for Dominic's endless parties—when I felt eyes on me.

I turned.

Dominic stood at the end of the aisle, hands in his pockets, watching me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

"You're ignoring me."

I put a box of pasta in my cart. "I'm living my life."

"You blocked my number."

"Yes."

"Moved out of my apartment."

"Your apartment," I corrected. "Never mine."

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood and smoke, achingly familiar.

"What do you want?" His voice was low, almost dangerous. "Money? A new car? Name it."

I looked up at him. At this man who'd given me everything except the one thing I'd actually needed.

"I don't want anything from you, Dominic."

For the first time in eight years, I saw something crack behind his eyes. Confusion. Panic. The dawning realization that maybe—just maybe—he couldn't fix this by throwing money at it.

"That's not possible." He was talking to himself now, working through the problem like it was a business deal. "Everyone wants something. You just haven't figured out what yet."

"I already have everything I need."

He laughed—bitter, disbelieving. "You're living in a shoebox in Brooklyn. Working some startup job that pays half what you used to make. You think that's everything?"

"Yes," I said simply. "Because it's mine."

I pushed past him, leaving my cart behind.

This time, I didn't look back.