His Talisman, My Severance

Samuel messaged me almost instantly.

"What the hell is this supposed to mean?"

The meaning was obvious. A clean break.

I couldn't be bothered to explain. I simply popped the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in two, and logged out of every app that connected me to him.

When I looked up, the car had pulled up in front of the safe house where we used to live.

Samuel didn't come back that night. He'd probably gone back to finish what I'd interrupted with Roxanne.

With that thought, I began to pack my bags.

As I packed my things, I found a pristine letter of offer.

It was a job for the position of chief restorer from the Seattle Art Museum, an offer I had never dared to accept. Samuel didn't want me to leave Chicago, so even though I coveted the position, I had never seriously considered it.

I had tucked the letter away carefully, filing it under "impossible dreams." I was even still planning our upcoming fourth anniversary, just five days away.

Now, I pressed the letter to my chest, my heart filled with a profound sense of relief that I hadn't been so foolish as to throw my entire self away for him.

I sat on the floor, looking around the penthouse apartment we had shared for over two years, and memories still surged uncontrollably.

It wasn't until Samuel and I had been dating for six months that I officially entered his world.

Initially, we were just an employer and his restorer.

He was handsome, dangerous, the king of Chicago's underworld, always flanked by a group of deferential Soldati. And I was just an ordinary art restorer. My boldest move had been pretending to study pigments just to steal a glance at his profile while he cleaned his gun on the sofa.

We were worlds apart.

After that painting was restored, however, he began appearing at my studio frequently. Sometimes he'd bring a new piece from his collection; other times he would just sit quietly to the side, watching me work.

"Trinity?"

One time, he suddenly spoke. I looked up and saw Samuel standing against the light, his features sharp and dangerous in an expensive, custom-made suit. He remembered my name.

I was stunned into silence.

"Trinity Thorne, right?" He strode closer, examining the brush in my hand. "A graduate of the Florence Academy of Art, youngest to graduate with honors. I remember."

My heart was pounding. I could only nod.

Samuel picked up another porcelain piece I had just finished restoring and asked if I wanted to see his private wine cellar. Along the way, he chatted casually about art history, about the bloody stories behind his collection, his tone casual, yet laced with an undeniable pressure.

When we reached the cellar, he handed me a glass of red wine and smiled.