Epilogue
Inés
The first thing we did was sell the loft.
Not immediately, of course. Harrison wanted me to move back in right away.
After everything had been said and done, after we'd spent weeks relearning how to be with each other again.
But I wasn't ready for that yet. The loft held too many ghosts of who we used to be, of the roles we'd fallen into so easily.
So we sold it and moved into something else. A three-bedroom on a quiet, mature street that didn't quite scream Billionaire's Row but still had good light and space. It was less of a statement and more of a home.
The day I moved out of the loft for good, I stood in the middle of that empty living room one last time. I'd taken everything with me; the furniture, the art, even that stupid vase Cynthia had picked out years ago.
Harrison didn't fight me on it. He just signed the papers, kept his birding notebook and nothing else. As if letting go of those material things was some kind of penance for what had happened.
I didn't care about the stuff. It never mattered to me anyway. In a way, I think he knew that, and parted with it on my behalf.
But something did change when I handed over the keys: my name appeared on the masthead at Locke a neat arrangement that gave me ongoing revenue and, more importantly, a seat at the table that couldn't be taken away by anyone's mother.
We stayed married, though. That part was still working, against all odds.
Tonight is the first night I've picked up my violin in a while. It's been sitting on its stand in our new living room for weeks, staring at me like a dare. Every day I walk past it and think: maybe tomorrow. But today, Harrison said something that pushed me over the edge.
I'd handed him a manuscript earlier. It was a debut literary novel I'm considering for my little imprint, and told him to read it and give me his notes. It was a test, maybe, to see if he could do what I've always done: look at someone else's work and really see it.
I found him in the back room an hour later, hunched over the pages with my red pencil in hand. The one I'd left on the table by accident after editing some contracts last week. He looked up when I walked in, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Sorry," he said quickly, setting down the pencil. "I just... I wanted to see what you see when you read these things."
He pushed the manuscript towards me. It was covered in his handwriting; careful, thoughtful notes in the margins that were ...good. Not genius or anything, but honest. Respectful.
"Why do you still use this old thing?" he asked, tapping the pencil. "You can afford nicer ones now."
I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. The same pencil I'd used every day at L it's Clara's pitch, her vision. And if you read between the lines, you can almost see her in the background, watching someone else take the credit.
I type a message to her, knowing she might never see it. I don't expect a reply. But I send it anyway:
Keep your own words, Clara; don't give them away. They belong to you. If you need anything, reach out. We're here. I know the feeling well.
I hit send and close my laptop, leaving it for tomorrow. The evening light filters through the windows of our new place. It's not the Tribeca loft, but it's ours.
It feels good to finally have space to just breathe, and a little corner of the world where I don't have to prove myself anymore. Where my words matter. And where I can write them without fear.
The violin is still there in the corner. I'll play it again later, maybe even finish that song I started years ago. But right now, this is enough. This quiet moment with my thoughts and my future ahead of me, open as a blank page.
As for tomorrow, I'll keep writing. One word at a time. That's the only way forward, after all, isn't it?
Just write. Just write.
THE END