I Faked My Death to Ruin My Unfaithful Fiancé

Three days. That's how long I let him play house in my townhouse.

Three days of his photos on social media. Three days of Gia in my robe, on my couch, drinking from my glasses. Three days of him telling a lawyer he was entitled to half of everything.

I gave him those three days on purpose. Long enough for him to feel safe. Long enough for the world to watch.

Friday morning, the sun was sharp and clean over the Upper East Side. I sat in the back of the Maybach with a cup of black coffee and watched Fifth Avenue slide past. My phone lit up. Vivienne.

*Cameras in position. Six lenses across the street. Two more on the corner.*

I typed back, *Good. Make sure they get the watches.*

*Already told them where to point.*

I smiled into my coffee. Vivienne never missed.

The car eased to the curb half a block from the townhouse. I didn't get out. I didn't need to. The whole point of this morning was that I would not appear in a single frame. Let the world watch the property speak for itself.

The real estate agent climbed the steps first, clipboard in hand, deed in her bag. Behind her came the moving crew, six men in matching navy shirts, calm and practiced. They had done corporate evictions before. They had done celebrity divorces. This was just another Friday for them.

I rolled the window down a single inch. From here I could see the third-floor balcony, the wrought iron railing, the planters I'd chosen myself two summers ago.

The agent rang the bell. Through the speaker on her clipboard radio I heard Gia's voice, sleepy and irritated. 'What.'

'Ma'am, this is a notice of trespass. You have ten minutes to vacate.'

A pause. Then a sharper voice. Kendrick. 'Who the hell is this? Do you know who I am?'

The agent's tone never changed. 'I know exactly who you are, Mr. Munoz. Ten minutes.'

I sipped my coffee.

The front door opened eight minutes later. Gia came out in a cream silk robe, the one I'd left hanging in the guest closet. Her hair was a knot on top of her head. Her belongings were in a black garbage bag a mover had handed her on the way out. She squinted into the sun. The cameras across the street made a sound like a flock of birds taking off.

She saw the lenses. She froze. Then, because she is who she is, she lifted her chin and walked down the steps as if she had chosen this exit. The garbage bag swung against her thigh.

Kendrick came out behind her in his bare feet. He was already shouting before he hit the sidewalk.

I didn't open the window further. I didn't need the audio. I had read his face for five years. I knew the shape of every word.

Upstairs, the balcony doors swung open.

The first thing over the railing was the watch box. Mahogany. Thirty-eight thousand dollars empty. I had bought it for him our second Christmas. It tumbled end over end and broke open on the pavement, and the watches scattered like silver fish on dry concrete. A Patek. Two Rolexes. The Audemars he'd worn to my company gala while drunkenly telling my CFO he was the brains of our relationship.

The glass on the Patek shattered. I felt nothing.

Next came the suits. They didn't fall, exactly. They drifted. Gray flannel, navy wool, the cream linen he'd worn to Aspen. Each one hit a puddle from last night's rain and bloomed dark at the hem. The movers worked in steady rhythm. A jacket. A pair of trousers. A silk tie like a snake unspooling through the air.

Kendrick was on the sidewalk, screaming up at the balcony. 'Stop. Stop. Those are mine.'

A mover paused at the railing, looked down at him, and dropped the framed magazine cover. The one of Kendrick on the cover of a B-list business quarterly, arms crossed, jaw set, the headline a lie he had paid a publicist to write. The frame skidded across the gutter and slid to a halt at his feet, glass cracked across his own face.

The cameras across the street kept clicking. I could already see the still that would run on every front page tomorrow. Kendrick standing barefoot in a puddle, his ridiculous magazine cover at his feet, his mouth open in a shape that was no longer charm.

The agent came down the steps and walked to my car. I lowered the window the rest of the way.

'Locks are being changed now,' she said. 'New deadbolts and a smart lock by noon. Cleaning crew at one. Stagers at four.'

'Thank you, Margaret.'

She glanced once at the wreckage on the sidewalk. 'You want anything boxed up for storage?'

'Burn it.'

She nodded as if I'd asked her to water the plants, and walked back to her clipboard.

I raised the window. The Maybach pulled away from the curb. Behind me, Kendrick was on his knees, picking up a wristwatch with a shaking hand. The cameras had him from three angles.

My phone lit up before we reached the corner.

*Trending. Number two nationally. Will be one within the hour.*

Then another text, ten minutes later.

*Embezzlement is now attached to his name in two thousand posts. Financial press picked it up. Not a breakup. An eviction. Not a scorned woman. A CEO.*

Then, an hour after that, a single word.

*Clean.*

I rested my head against the leather and closed my eyes. For the first time in five years, my chest felt quiet.

The quiet did not last.

That evening, Cassian sent me a link without comment. He never sent things without comment. That was the comment.

The tabloid had given Kendrick the cover. There he was, eyes red, hair washed for the camera. 'I LOVED HER,' the headline screamed. 'SHE THREW ME AWAY.'

The interview was three thousand words of reinvention. He had supported me through the lean years. He had stood beside me at every gala. He had been the steady hand behind the cold CEO. He produced one photograph as proof. The two of us at a charity dinner. Him in a rented tuxedo. Me in a dress that had cost more than the car he pretended to own.

'Equal partners,' the caption read.

I read it twice. I set the phone down on the marble. I poured myself a glass of red and watched the lights of the city bloom against the dusk.

My phone buzzed. Vivienne. *He's gaining sympathy. Some of it loud. Want me to push back?*

I looked out at the river, at the bridge in the distance.

*No,* I typed. *Let him have the week.*

A pause.

*Why?*

I thought about the rain in the forecast for Tuesday night. The dive team Cassian had already briefed. The drop my body would not actually take.

*Because the higher he climbs,* I wrote, *the further he falls.*

I set the phone face down. The wine was good. The city was loud.

I was, finally, very calm.