Part 3

I spent the first evening after Margaret’s call staring at photographs of the London library.

Its central reading room was filled with extraordinary architectural details.

Tall windows rose above rows of carved wooden shelves, and a delicate gallery ran along the upper level.

Water damage had weakened parts of the interior, while decades of unsuitable repairs had concealed original features.

I could almost feel the old stone beneath my fingertips.

There were complicated technical challenges waiting for the restoration team.

The kind I loved solving.

The kind that made the years of late nights, difficult examinations, and demanding projects feel worthwhile.

For twenty minutes, I forgot how lonely I had become.

Then Julian entered the room.

“Still working?”

“Just thinking about something important.”

He glanced at my laptop.

“Can it wait?

I’m exhausted.”

“I haven’t even told you what it is.”

He was already looking at his phone.

“Then tell me tomorrow.”

He disappeared upstairs.

I listened to his footsteps fade and waited for the familiar impulse to follow him.

Usually, I would have gone upstairs and tried again.

I would have explained why the conversation mattered, apologized for choosing an inconvenient moment, and promised not to take much of his time.

That evening, I stayed where I was.

For once, I wanted him to come back because he was interested.

He didn’t.

The next day, I walked through our house before leaving for work.

I looked at the furniture we had chosen together and the wedding photographs hanging in the hallway.

There was a picture of us standing outside the church, laughing because the wind had caught my veil.

Another showed Julian holding my hand during our first vacation in Maine.

I remembered how certain I had been that our future would be something we created together.

The memories were still beautiful.

That was what made everything so painful.

I didn’t hate Julian.

I still loved parts of him.

I loved who we had once been.

But I was beginning to understand that loving a memory was not the same as being happy in the present.

At the office, Margaret asked whether I had made a decision.

I looked at the folder on her desk.

“Yes.”

She waited.

“I want London.”

Her face brightened.

“Are you sure?”

I thought of Julian’s empty chair at dinner.

I thought of the evenings I spent waiting for conversations that never happened.

I thought of the champagne bottle we never opened.

Then I thought of the library.

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m sure.”

Margaret stood and embraced me.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

When I returned to my office, I opened the formal acceptance letter.

My hands trembled as I signed it.

I expected guilt to overwhelm me.

Instead, I felt an enormous wave of relief.

For the first time in months, I had made a decision without first calculating how much unhappiness it might cause my husband.

I was still frightened.

I still believed Julian deserved to know.

But I no longer believed he deserved the power to decide for me.

That afternoon, I sent him a message.

We need to talk tonight.

It’s important.

His response arrived almost an hour later.

Can’t.

Client dinner.

I stared at the screen.

Can we talk afterward?

Probably late.

What’s wrong?

Nothing is wrong.

I have something important to tell you.

Then it can wait until tomorrow.

I wanted to write that it couldn’t wait forever.

Instead, I put my phone away.

That night, I stayed awake until nearly midnight.

Julian came home after twelve-thirty.

He kissed the top of my head as I sat in bed reading.

“Long day,” he murmured.

“Did you remember we needed to talk?”

He stopped beside the dresser.

“Emma, it’s almost one in the morning.”

“I know.”

“Then can we please be reasonable?”

I closed my book.

“Of course.”

He turned off the light.

I lay awake beside him for another hour.

The next morning was Thursday.

I remember that clearly because Thursdays had once been our favorite evenings.

Early in our marriage, we used to cook dinner together every Thursday and watch an old movie afterward.

Even during our busiest years, we tried to protect that time.

Eventually, our Thursday dinners became another tradition that disappeared without either of us formally acknowledging it.

That morning, I was preparing coffee when I noticed Julian’s phone charging on the kitchen island.

He was upstairs showering.

I wasn’t interested in searching his messages.

I had never been comfortable with the idea of invading someone’s privacy simply because I felt insecure.

Then the screen lit up.

A notification appeared from Serena Hayes.

Last night was a mistake only if you regret it.

I don’t.

I stood completely still.

My first reaction wasn’t anger.

It was confusion.

I read the sentence again, hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something harmless.

Perhaps they had disagreed about a business strategy.

Perhaps someone had made an inappropriate joke.

Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation that would make me feel foolish for worrying.

Then another notification appeared.

I’m tired of pretending those late meetings are only work.

When are you going to tell Emma?

The kitchen seemed to become unnaturally quiet.

I heard the faint hum of the refrigerator.

I heard water running through the pipes upstairs.