Chapter 3
The Spree is frozen, but the ice isn’t thick enough to trust. Every step is uncertain, the river groaning below, water moving slow and deadly beneath the surface. My boots slip, breath catching as the wind slices through the layers I’ve thrown on—cheap wool, battered leather, everything I own that looks like armor but isn’t. Berlin winter tastes like diesel and river mud, bitter and metallic. I pull my scarf tighter, but the cold finds every weak spot.
Miles is already waiting. He stands under the iron bridge, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. He doesn’t look up as I approach. The city lights smear across the ice, fractured and strange. For a second, I wonder if I’ll slip, if I’ll fall and he’ll just watch. He’s Gemma’s twin—same sharp jaw, same impossible cheekbones, but where Gemma is polished glass, Miles is all edges, all scuffed leather and restless energy. He doesn’t offer his hand. He offers a folder.
I take it, gloved fingers trembling. The paper’s edge is sharp enough to cut. My breath clouds between us, white and fleeting. I flip through the contents, each page heavier than the last. Bank statements—numbers that don’t belong, signatures that don’t fit. Medical records—notes in Gemma’s handwriting, prescriptions for drugs I never took, dates that line up with the days I was locked out of the apartment. Screenshots—blog posts, emails, blurry photos from the darkroom. The smell of old paper mixes with the river stink, a reminder that nothing clean survives here.
"You wanted proof," Miles says. His voice is low, flat. Not gentle. Not cruel. "There it is."
I look at him, searching for something familiar. I find nothing. "Why now?"
He shrugs, the movement tight and impatient. "Gemma forged Cade’s signature on debt documents. Threatened to release them unless he helped destroy you. The darkroom scene? Theater. The blogs were waiting. Your ‘instability’ was the narrative they sold, and Cade let it happen."
I stare at the folder, adrenaline humming beneath my skin. "You’re telling me this because—?"
He laughs, sharp and humorless. "Why help you? I’m not helping you. I’m using you to hurt her. The fact that it helps you is incidental."
The wind picks up, rattling the bridge overhead. Something inside me coils, ready to strike. "What if I don’t want to hurt her?"
He studies me, eyes cold and clear. "Then you’re lying. I can see it in your prints. The way you burn the faces out. You’re not erasing yourself. You’re practicing on yourself before you do it to her."
I flinch. Not visibly, I hope, but enough for him to notice. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "You’re angry enough now. That’s all I needed."
A train passes overhead, its thunder vibrating through the ice. My hands ache, blood pounding in my ears. I close the folder and tuck it under my arm. There’s no ceremony, no apology. Only the facts, cold and unyielding.
"You paid my first three months' rent," I say, the accusation soft but pointed. "You watched me struggle, disappear. Why?"
Miles’s jaw tightens, a muscle flickering beneath the skin. "Gemma destroyed my career. She used Cade to launder her debts, used you as cover. I lost everything. I waited for someone angry enough to burn it all down. You just happened to be the one."
I look away, the city blurring, lights smearing across the river like bruises. The folder feels heavier than anything I’ve carried. I want to throw it into the water. I want to keep it close, press it against my chest until the cold seeps in and numbs everything. I want revenge, but I don’t want to admit it.
Miles turns to leave, but pauses. "You have everything you need. Use it. Or don’t. But don’t pretend you’re above it."
He disappears into the darkness, footsteps crunching on the ice, fading into the city that swallowed us both.
I stand there for a long time, the folder pressed to my chest, the river whispering secrets beneath my feet. I don’t go to Cade’s hotel on Friday. I don’t return his calls. I spend the night in my darkroom, the squat colder than usual, the window rattling as the wind howls outside.
I pull out negatives I haven’t touched in a year—our wedding, our anniversary, the photos I took of myself pregnant, before I knew I was losing it. I print them all. I watch the images emerge, faces half-shadowed, bodies caught mid-motion, the history of us etched in silver and black. My hands are steady now, the pain dull and distant. The prints hang from wire like confessions, each one a piece of the truth I never wanted.
The chemicals bite at the cut on my thumb, sharp and clean. I welcome the sting. I build something out of the wreckage, piece by piece, image by image. The city outside is restless, sirens echoing through the night, the Spree cutting through silence like a threat.
By morning, I am surrounded by the evidence of everything we lost. I am sharper, colder, ready for something I can’t name.
A knock at the door. Too early for the landlord, too late for anyone else. I open it, heart pounding.
Cade stands in the doorway, eyes bloodshot, hair unruly. He looks like he hasn’t slept. He looks like a man who’s lost his center.
"You didn’t come," he says, voice rough, barely above a whisper.
I step back, letting the silence fill the space between us. The folder sits on the table, the prints hang behind me like ghosts.
"I know what you know," I reply. My voice is steady, but my hands shake. "And I’m not ready to forgive you for knowing it late."
He nods, slow and deliberate. There’s no protest, no plea. Only acceptance.
He steps back, into the hall, the city spilling light across his face. "When you are," he says, "I’ll be waiting. I’m very good at waiting."
He leaves, and I stand in the doorway, the cold biting at my skin. The prints sway gently on the wire, the river whispers beneath the window, and I am suspended between what was and what could be, the evidence of truth and the promise of revenge. The city outside is waking, and so am I.
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