The night I discovered I was pregnant, I called my husband with shaking hands and begged him to come home early.

When Claire pushed open the heavy glass doors of her building, the damp autumn air rushed into her lungs.

Vincent was waiting at the bottom of the stone steps.

As Claire stepped onto the wet sidewalk, he took one hesitant step forward, then stopped, as if terrified that moving any closer would cause her to dissolve into thin air.

“Claire,” he whispered.

His voice was broken, dry, and trembling—a ragged sound that bore no resemblance to the smooth, commanding baritone that used to rule Las Vegas boardrooms.

Claire stood under the shelter of the building’s canvas awning. She crossed her arms loosely across her chest, staring at him with a calm, unreadable expression.

“Hello, Vincent,” she said softly.

Hearing her voice—hearing her speak his name without anger, without tears, but with a terrifying, absolute distance—made Vincent stagger as if he had been struck.

“You’re... you’re alive,” he breathed, hot tears welling in his dark eyes, mixing with the rain streaming down his face. “My God, Claire... you’re alive.”

“I’ve been alive for two years, Vincent,” Claire replied calmly. “How did you find me?”

Vincent swallowed hard, his hands trembling in his coat pockets. “Frank... Frank found a permit application filed with the Seattle Historical Society three weeks ago. The architectural signature matched your handwriting. I... I caught the first flight out.”

Claire nodded slowly. “I see.”

Vincent took another small step forward, reaching out a shaking hand toward her. “Claire, please... I’ve spent seven hundred and thirty days looking for you. I’ve lived in hell every single second since the night I came home and found those papers on the counter.”

“You shouldn't have come,” Claire said, her voice remaining entirely level. “You should have stayed in Las Vegas.”

“Stayed?!” Vincent’s voice cracked into a desperate sob. He dropped to his knees right there on the wet brick pavement, oblivious to the rain, oblivious to the few passersby who turned to stare at the tall, wealthy man collapsing in the street. “Claire, I lost our baby! I lost you! I almost killed you with that cake! I forced it on you, I ignored you, I walked upstairs while you were suffocating in our home!”

He pulled a small velvet pouch from his pocket, opening it with frantic, slick fingers. Inside lay her platinum wedding ring.

“I kept it,” Vincent wept, holding the ring up toward her like a dying man begging for water. “I haven't slept a full night since you left. I destroyed Isabella. I destroyed her family. I destroyed everyone who ever made you feel small. I’m so sorry, Claire. Please... hit me. Scream at me. Shoot me if you want to. Just don't look at me like I’m a stranger.”

Claire looked down at the man kneeling at her feet.

Three years ago, she would have given her life for a single tear from Vincent Moretti. She would have begged for his attention, cherished his touch, and done anything to make him look at her the way he was looking at her right now—with utter, total devotion.

But looking at him now, kneeling in the rain, clutching a cold piece of metal, Claire felt no triumph. She felt no rage. She felt no lingering urge to hurt him back.

She felt only pity.

“Get up, Vincent,” Claire said gently. “You’re making a scene.”

“Not until you tell me you hear me!” he pleaded, tears streaming down his face. “Tell me there’s a chance, Claire. One percent. A fraction of a percent. I’ll give up the casinos. I’ll sell the estate. I’ll move to Seattle. I’ll sweep the floors of your studio. Just let me earn back a piece of your heart.”

Claire stepped out from under the awning, stepping right up to where he knelt. She didn't flinch away from him. She reached down, took his wrist gently, and pulled him up until he was standing on his feet.

His hands were burning hot, shaking violently against her cool skin.

“Vincent,” Claire said, looking directly into his tortured, bloodshot eyes. “The woman who loved you—the woman who begged you to come home so she could tell you she was carrying your child—died in the emergency room two years ago.”

Vincent flinched as if slashed by a blade.

“She didn't survive that night,” Claire continued softly, her voice filled with a profound, sad grace. “I am not that Claire anymore. I don't hate you. I don't hold anger toward you anymore. I’ve processed my grief, and I’ve built a life that makes me happy.”

“Claire, please—”

“I don't want your money,” she interrupted gently. “I don't want your revenge against Isabella. And I don't want you to ruin yourself out of guilt. I want you to sign the final divorce decrees that my lawyer sent your office six months ago.”

Vincent stared at her, his mouth opening and closing, his heart shattering into a thousand irrecoverable pieces.

Indifference.

The ultimate weapon. She wasn't holding a grudge; she had simply moved past his existence. He was no longer her villain, no longer her king, no longer her husband. He was merely an unpleasant memory from a life she had outgrown.

“I can't let you go,” Vincent whispered, his voice dying in his throat.

“You already did,” Claire replied softly. “Two years ago, when you chose a slice of cake over my call.”

She turned around, walked up the stone steps of her building, and opened the door.

Before stepping inside, she looked back over her shoulder one last time.