Chapter 8
In a final attempt to win me back, Gavin took me to the old house.
It was a small brick building in Brooklyn where we grew up together, the place the Whitestone family started before they became an empire. It held all our purest memories.
"Remember this oak tree?" Gavin touched the rough bark, his eyes impossibly gentle. "Ten years ago, right here, I swore to you that I would build a new empire, a family with no betrayal and no lies."
I looked at the tree. I remembered. The sun was bright that day, and the young Gavin had a light in his eyes, not the calculating ambition he had now.
"Viola, let's stay here for a few days. Just us. No bodyguards, no Sofia, no troubles." He took my hand and opened the dusty front door.
Everything inside was just as it was a decade ago.
Gavin went to the backyard to roast sweet potatoes, something we used to do.
While he was gone, I went up to the attic.
In the corner was a rusted safe.
It was Gavin's most private space. Years ago, he told me it held his "original heart."
On a whim, I reached out and entered the combination: my birthday.
With a click, the safe opened.
There were no gold bars, no secret files. Just an old tin box. Inside was a single, yellowed letter addressed to "My future wife, Viola."
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
The paper was brittle, the handwriting young but strong.
Viola,
When you read this, we must be married, right? Do I kiss you every morning and tell you I love you? Have I taken you skiing? I know it's your favorite. Have I made you the most envied Mrs. Whitestone?
No. None of it.
I don't know what the future Gavin will be like. But my father's cruelty and his women disgust me. I swear, I will never become a monster like him. If one day, I hurt you for profit, if I become a liar with a mistress, please, don't forgive me. Please, either kill me or leave me. Because that Gavin is no longer the Gavin who loves you.
Tears fell onto the paper, blurring the ink.
The Gavin from ten years ago, across a vast expanse of time, had just passed judgment on the Gavin of today.
Just then, I heard Gavin's frantic voice from downstairs.
"Viola! Come down, quick!"
I wiped my tears, stuffed the letter into my pocket, and went downstairs.
Gavin was on the phone, his face grim, the earlier tenderness gone.
"Sofia's trying to kill herself at the hospital," he said rapidly, grabbing his jacket. "She's having a PTSD episode, seeing things, threatening to slit her wrists. The doctors can't stop her."
The same old trick.
Every time we had a moment of peace, Sofia would have a perfectly timed "crisis." And every time, Gavin would choose her.
"You're leaving?" I asked calmly from the stairs.
"It's a matter of life and death, Viola!" He didn't see this was his last chance. He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. "She's pregnant, she's unstable. I'll be right back. You wait for me here. Don't go anywhere."
He didn't even look back as he rushed out the door.
The roar of the engine faded into the distance.
The house was quiet again, except for the crackling fire.
I took the letter from my pocket and walked to the fireplace.
"Goodbye, Gavin."
I tossed the letter into the flames. The paper vanished instantly, the words "please, leave me" turning to ash in the firelight.
It was his final request. I was granting it.
My phone buzzed. "Ms. Rossi, this is the law firm. Your divorce has been officially finalized. You are free."
"Thank you."
I hung up and took out the fake passport and plane ticket I had prepared.
I sent Gavin one last text: I'm at the old house. I need some time alone. Don't look for me.
I walked out of the old house. A black, unmarked car was waiting at the corner. It was a contact from the dark web, ready to drive me directly to a private airfield.
Two hours later, I was on a plane leaving New York.
I looked down at the glittering lights of the city. It was a monstrous, glowing beast that had devoured my youth, my love, and my innocence.
Gavin was probably at the hospital right now, holding a crying Sofia, patiently coaxing the blade from her hand. He was probably thinking that after he calmed her down, he'd come back and roast me those sweet potatoes.
But he would be waiting forever.
Goodbye, Gavin Whitestone.
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