Chapter 4 - The Clean-Up
The movers arrived precisely at 12:00 PM.
They weren't my movers—they were the court-appointed bailiffs and a commercial moving crew hired by Jonathan’s firm to pack up Ethan’s wardrobe, his golf clubs, and his pathetic little collection of self-help books on corporate leadership.
Noah and I sat at the kitchen island, eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking iced tea while two men in blue jumpsuits carried Ethan’s designer suits out to a rented U-Haul parked in the driveway.
“Are they really gone for good, Em?” Noah asked quietly, looking out the window as the truck doors slammed shut.
“For good, bud,” I smiled, reaching across the counter to ruffle his dark hair. “No more walking on eggshells. No more apologizing for taking up space. This house belongs to us now.”
Noah offered a small, genuine smile—the first real smile I had seen since he arrived in Chicago.
My phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text message from an unknown number.
MADISON: Ethan is here, and he’s freaking out. He says you froze our joint account. How are we supposed to pay the rent on the nursery?
I stared at the screen for three seconds.
May you like
Then I blocked the number.
I didn't owe Madison an explanation. I didn't owe Ethan mercy. And I certainly didn't owe Diane another second of my time.
