When My Ex Staged My Husband’s Fatal Stunt Accident

The penthouse smells like money—leather, cold marble, and something faintly citrus from the imported diffuser Easton's interior designer installed last month. I've always hated that diffuser. It tries too hard, like everything else in this place, to suggest warmth where there is only expensive emptiness.

I sit across from him at the dining table, my hands folded in my lap, my spine straight. Seven years have taught me perfect posture. Seven years have taught me how to breathe shallowly enough that my chest doesn't move, how to smile with my mouth but not my eyes, how to be present without taking up space.

Easton slides the check across the table with two fingers. The motion is precise, controlled—the same way he signs acquisition papers, the same way he ended things with his last three business partners. The number has more zeros than I expected. More zeros than I'm worth, probably, but less than what I gave up to sit in this chair.

"Florence and I will announce the engagement next week," he says. His voice is even, almost kind. That's the worst part. He's not cruel. He's never been cruel. He's just... finished. "This should be more than sufficient to ensure your comfort. I've also arranged for the lease on your apartment to transfer fully into your name. No strings."

No strings. As if the last seven years weren't one long, unbreakable thread wrapped around my throat.

I don't look at the check. I look at him instead—really look, maybe for the first time in months. His jaw is freshly shaved. His shirt is pressed. He looks like a man who slept well last night, who woke up and made a reasonable decision over his morning coffee. Florence Jenkins is a good match. Everyone will say so. She's elegant, educated, from the right family. She'll photograph beautifully at charity galas. She'll never peel his oranges because she'll never need to prove she belongs.

The orange sits in the bowl between us, bright and incongruous against the black marble. I reach for it without thinking, my hands moving through the old ritual before my brain catches up. My nails are short—I cut them years ago so I could do this properly, so the peel would come away in one smooth spiral and he'd never have to feel the bitterness on his fingers.

I dig my thumb into the skin and start to peel.

Easton watches me. I feel his gaze like a weight, but he doesn't stop me. Maybe he thinks this is sentiment. Maybe he thinks I'm buying time. Maybe he just wants one last orange.

The peel curls away in my hands, and I am seven years old again, watching my mother stand in our cramped kitchen, hands shaking as she stared at a check from a man whose name I wasn't allowed to say. Diana Nichols, former actress, former mistress, former everything. She'd cried that night—silently, so I wouldn't hear—and then she'd cashed the check and never spoke his name again.

I swore I'd be smarter. I swore I'd be different.

But here I am, peeling an orange for a man who just bought out my heart like a failing investment.

I separate the slices carefully, arranging them on the small plate in front of him. No pith. No mess. Perfect, like always. My hands are steady. I'm proud of that. I've given him seven years of steady hands.

"Thank you," Easton says quietly. He almost sounds like he means it.

I stand, smoothing my dress. The check stays on the table. I'll take it—I'm not a martyr—but I won't touch it in front of him. I won't give him the satisfaction of watching me accept the price he's placed on my absence.

"I hope you're very happy, Easton," I say. My voice doesn't shake. It's a small miracle. "I hope Florence gives you everything you're looking for."

He opens his mouth, and for a fraction of a second, I think he might say something real. Something that isn't a transaction. But then he closes it again and nods, once, like I've just agreed to a revised contract term.

I walk to the door. My heels click against the marble—sharp, final, a countdown I can't stop. I don't look back. If I look back, I'll see him reaching for the orange, and I'll remember the way he used to smile when I handed him the first slice, and I'll break in a way I can't afford.

The elevator doors close, and my hands start to tremble.

By the time I reach the lobby, I'm shaking so hard I have to brace myself against the wall. The doorman pretends not to notice. He's been trained well.

Louise is waiting outside in her car, engine running. She takes one look at my face and says, "How many bags?"

I don't cry. Not yet. I just say, "All of them."

She nods and pulls into traffic. By morning, the settlement will clear. By afternoon, my apartment will be listed. By the end of the week, my number will be disconnected, and Maia Nichols—the woman who loved Easton Bishop—will cease to exist.

I'll build someone new. Someone who doesn't cut her nails for anyone.

Someone who doesn't peel oranges in the dark.