Ten minutes later, I heard the front door close.

The apartment fell silent again.

I dragged a carry-on suitcase from the back of the closet and started packing.

My passport, laptop, the black Vera Wang power suit—my interview armor, unworn for five years. There was also a small velvet pouch containing the pearl earrings my mother left me. “At all times, you must have the means to leave with dignity,” she’d said.

The phone on the counter buzzed—it was Arthur.

“Did he sign?” the old man’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Not yet. But he will,” I said, folding my last blouse. “He just chose to go to the office to handle Chloe’s ‘emergency’ instead of staying here to save his marriage.”

Arthur was silent for a moment. “Fool.”

“Yeah.” I zipped up the suitcase. “Book me a flight to Paris for tonight. And let our media contacts know: Harper Vance is officially returning to Sterling Law as Co-Head of European M&A.”

“Are you sure you want to be this public about it?”

“Absolutely.” I looked out at the Manhattan skyline. “I want everyone to know—I wasn't dumped by him. I chose to leave.”

I heard the clacking of a keyboard on the other end. “First class, 8 PM, JFK. Liam will meet you at Charles de Gaulle.”

Liam Carter. The managing partner of Sterling’s Paris office, my senior from Yale Law, and the person who had yelled, “Are you insane?” for ten minutes straight when I’d turned down Sterling’s offer years ago.

“Don’t tell him too many details,” I said.

“He already knows,” Arthur sighed. “The New York Post’s gossip column just updated: Thorne Capital CEO spotted at assistant’s apartment in the early hours, wife allegedly moves out of their Upper East Side love nest.”

They work fast. I could almost picture the headlines: *Wall Street’s Golden Couple Myth Shatters*, *Billion-Dollar Divorce Battle Begins*.

Fine.

Let the fire burn hotter.

At four in the afternoon, the doorbell rang again.

This time it was the movers I’d hired to deal with my remaining things. While directing the workers, I took three calls.

The first was from Julian’s personal lawyer, his tone aggressive, demanding we “talk.”

“Tell your client,” I said into the speakerphone, “all communication goes through Sterling Law. I’ve already changed all my personal contact information.”

The second was from a reporter at The Wall Street Journal, wanting to confirm if the “2.3% drop in Thorne Capital’s stock due to the CEO’s marital crisis” was related.

“No comment,” I said. “But I’d suggest you look into Thorne Capital’s recent personnel changes and risk management loopholes. It might be more newsworthy than gossip.”

The third… was Chloe.

Her voice on the phone was thin and timid, like a frightened bird. “Harper, I’m so, so sorry… Last night was an accident. I didn’t mean to cause trouble for Julian. Please don’t fight because of me, okay?”

I leaned against a packed cardboard box, finding the whole scene absurd, like something out of a sitcom.

“Chloe,” I said calmly, “I have two pieces of advice for you.”

She held her breath.

“First, stop calling me ‘Harper.’ We are not friends, and we never will be.”

“Second, enjoy your special privileges while they last. Because once I’m gone, you’ll be the first sacrifice thrown out to appease angry shareholders. Julian might be blinded by love, or whatever this is, but Thorne Capital’s investors won’t be.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“Are… are you threatening me?”

“No,” I said, hanging up. “It’s a forecast.”

At seven that evening, I walked out of the apartment building, pulling my carry-on behind me.

The paparazzi outside were even more numerous than I’d expected. Flashbulbs popped like a miniature thunderstorm. I didn’t cover my face. I just held my head high and walked towards the waiting black Mercedes.

“Ms. Vance! Is the divorce due to a third party?”

“Thorne Capital’s stock continues to fall, do you plan on selling your shares?”

“There are rumors you’re returning to the legal world, is that true?”

Before getting into the car, I turned to face the cameras.

The hem of my trench coat billowed in the night wind. The pearl earrings gleamed under the flashing lights.

“I’ll only say this once.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. “From today on, please address me as Harper Vance, Esquire.”

“As for your other questions—my lawyer will answer them.”

The car door closed, sealing out the chaos.

The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Straight to the airport, Ms. Vance?”

“Yes,” I said, watching the neon lights blur past the window. “As fast as possible.”

The car entered a tunnel, and the lights of Manhattan were swallowed by darkness.

I opened the photo album on my phone, found the picture from our engagement five years ago, and hovered my finger over the delete button.

I paused for three seconds.

Then I swiped left.

【Move this photo to “Recently Deleted”】

Before the screen went dark, the last bit of light illuminated a small line of text:

*Photo moved to trash. Will be permanently deleted in 30 days.*

That was enough.

Thirty days. Enough time for me to fly across the Atlantic, find a new apartment in Paris, and relearn how to breathe for myself again.

And enough time for Julian Thorne to understand—

Some mistakes never get a one-hundredth chance.