The next day, the penthouse was empty, as if it had absorbed all the echoes of the previous day. I went through Mark’s drawers, not out of revenge… not yet. I just wanted to understand who I had really been living with for the past four years.
I found notes, copies of emails, transcripts of his diary of his visits to “private.” I saw the same sense of déjà vu in myself: a pattern where betrayal was not accidental but strategic.
With each discovery, my heart beat calmer.
That was a good sign.
Because a calm heart writes most sharply.
I made myself a coffee, grabbed my laptop, and sat by the window, staring out at Manhattan in the morning fog. Sleepless, emaciated, with disheveled hair—I looked exactly as he had described me. A scarecrow.
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