The apartment feels different now.
I walk from room to room, seeing it with new eyes. The designer furniture Julian chose. The art he selected because it was an investment, not because we liked it. The kitchen where we performed our morning routines like actors on a stage.
None of it is mine. None of it was ever mine.
I end up in the guest room. The bed is still unmade from when I locked myself in here the night Julian told me about Vivian. Was that really only two days ago? It feels like a lifetime.
My phone buzzes. Maribel.
Did you go through with it?
I stare at the message. How do I explain what happened? That I hired an escort but we didn't have s*x, we just talked? That I kissed a stranger and it felt more real than six years with my husband? That he left me a note telling me to
