Chapter 1
I'm supposed to be at work.Brenda's going to dock my pay for leaving early again but the shooting pain in my left leg-the one I've been faking since I married Daniel-has become my favorite excuse, and I've perfected the wince that sells it.
As I got to the building entrance, the smell of curry and burnt food hit my nose immediately. One of the neighbours must have overslept.
I climb the flight of stairs as our apartment sits at the end of a hallway with peeling wallpaper that probably hasn't been changed since the seventies.
I'm thinking about dinner because Daniel's stressed about his campaign pitch, maybe I'll make that italian pasta dish he likes, the one that costs half my paycheck and takes forever to prepare.
I inserted my key into the keyhole when I realize that the door's unlocked.That's the first warning sign I ignore.The second is the sound coming from our bedroom. It wasn't just voices but rhythmic movements too. The kind you can't mistake for anything else.
My fingers curls around my purse strap.I should leave,walk back down those stairs, get on the subway, and pretend I never came home early.
Instead, I push the door wide open. Our bedroom door is slightly ajar. They didn't even bother closing it all the way. I don't announce myself, I just stand there, watching my husband fuck someone else in the bed I bought at a thrift store.
I tried to remember her name because I remember her from the holiday party. She had blonde highlights that was hard to miss
They don't notice me immediately as they were pretty occupied but when they finally do, it's almost funny.
"Daniel." I screamed having had enough
He freezes and immediately she scrambles for the sheets like they'll somehow undo what I just saw.His face does this thing when shock melts into guilt and that melts into something that looks suspiciously like irritation.
"Isabel." He called out,not even an apology in his voice, just annoyance.
"You're home early."
"I am done with my shift, so I decided to come rest here."I lied.
Jessica's crying now, grabbing her clothes, stumbling over her shoes. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean-"
"Just leave." I don't yell, I barely raised my voice and she's out the door in under a minute.Daniel sits up in bed like we're about to discuss whose turn it is to do the dishes. He's not even trying to look sorry.
"We need to talk," he says.
"About what? Also,why now?"I asked pinching myself to wake up from this nightmare.
"You don't understand the pressure I've been under." He's pulling on his boxers, completely calm. "The campaign, the deadlines, you're always at that store-"
"So this is my fault?"
"You're never here and when you are, you're always ehausted, limping around, barely able to..." He stops.
"Barely able to what?"I asked still in disbelief
His jaw tightens. I've seen this look before, but never aimed at me. It's the face he makes when the waiter gets his order wrong or when someone cuts him off in traffic.
"You're not who I thought you were," he says.The irony almost makes me laugh."I stayed because I felt sorry for you, Isabel. Every single day, watching you struggle with that cane, that pathetic job, barely keeping up with your half of the rent..."
"But I pay exactly half and I have never defaulted, have I?"
"That's not the point," He's shouting now. "I'm trying to build something here. A career and a life and you're what? Dead weight I can't shake off."
There it is,what he's been swallowing for months finally spilled out.
"You're a burden," he continues, his voice dropping into something colder than anger. "A useless waste of my time."
The words land like a slap,not because they hurt but because I finally have what I came for. I've spent years playing this part,pretending to be someone small and broken and grateful. I wanted to know if he could love me without the rest of it-the money, the name, the power that came with who I really am.
"You're right," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"I am a burden so I'll leave."I walk past him toward the closet, toward the locked box I've kept hidden since the day we got married. Inside is my real phone,my real ID and real credit cards. Everything that proves I'm not Isabel Crawford, retail worker with a limp and a loser husband.
I'm Isabelle Sinclair and I'm done with this experiment.
"Wait, what are you doing?" He's following me now. "You can't just leave!"
"Watch me."I say, already walking towards the door.
"Isabel, let's talk about this-"
I stop at the door and took one good look at him one last time.He's so aggressively average. I convinced myself that meant something pure and real, that maybe without all the trappings of my real life, I could find someone who truly wanted me, not my bank account.
But he's just a man who cheated on his wife and called her worthless."My name is Isabelle," I tell him quietly. "And you'll have the divorce papers by Friday."
"Divorce? It hasn't gotten to that,you're insane-"
"Have a nice life, Daniel."I walk out with no limp and cane.Just me, walking faster than I have in years.
"Wait, what happened to your leg..." His voice chases me down the stairs, confused and angry but I'm already gone.
Outside, my real phone comes to life in my hand. Seventy-three missed calls. Over two hundred texts. Most from my grandmother, who told me this would end badly, she was right.
I dial her number and she picks up immediately. "Isabelle." I didn't realize how starved I was to hear it.
"I'm coming home."
Silence.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
I think about Daniel's face and the casual cruelty in his voice."Yeah,I did."
"And?"
"You were right." I step off the curb, hailing a cab. "Testing someone's love just proves you don't trust them. And if you don't trust them, what's the point?"
"I'm sorry, darling."
"Well,don't be grammy"
A cab pulls up, yellow and bright and nothing like the buses I've been taking. "I'm fine,I needed the closure."
"Come home and I'll have Thomas draw up the papers."
"I have one more request grammy?"
"Yes, what is it my sweet bun?"
"I want Daniel Crawford destroyed."
I can hear the smile in her voice. "Consider it done."
I give the driver an address I haven't said out loud in years. The Sinclair Estate, Upper East Side. The kind of address that makes people do double-takes.As we pull away, I glance back at the apartment building one last time.
Daniel's at the window, watching me leave in a cab he probably thinks I can't afford.He has no idea what's about to hit him.