2. Nora
— ? —
Nora
The hallway to Dante’s office is dark.
Most of the floor is empty - just emergency exit signs casting their red glow and the light spilling from his corner suite. My heels are muted by the expensive carpet. The wine bottle is getting heavy, so I switch arms.
Dante, we need to talk.
No. Too harsh.
Dante, I love you, but I can’t keep living like this.
Better. More honest.
Dante, I came here tonight because you promised-
I stop walking.
Through the glass wall of his office, two figures are visible.
Dante. And someone else.
For a second I think it’s a client. Some late-night meeting, another reason he can’t come home, another broken promise. I tighten my grip on the wine. I’ll wait. Waiting is something I’ve gotten very good at.
Then the other figure moves, and I see champagne-blonde hair. A slim silhouette. A hand reaching up to touch my husband’s chest.
Vanessa.
Her palm is flat against his shirt. Right over his heart. She’s saying something I can’t hear through the glass. Dante’s face is turned toward her, and I can’t read his expression, I can’t see-
She kisses him.
***
What the fuck.
What the fuck am I looking at.
The wine bottle slips. Hits the carpet with a dull thud. I barely hear it.
My husband’s mouth is on another woman’s mouth.
No -her mouth is on his. She’s kissing him. But his hands aren’t pushing her away, not yet, not fast enough, and I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe-
My hand flies to my mouth. The floor tilts under my heels. Bile climbs my throat, hot and sour, and I have to swallow hard to keep from being sick right here on the expensive carpet.
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m standing in a hallway in the red dress I saved for six months, holding honeymoon wine, watching my husband kiss his assistant, and this cannot be my actual life.
My heart is slamming so hard I can hear it. Feel it in my temples, my throat, my chest. The glass wall might as well be a movie screen. Some horrible film I can’t turn off.
Move, I think. Do something. Scream. Bang on the glass. Storm in there and rip her off him.
But my body won’t cooperate. My legs have turned to concrete. My hand is still pressed over my mouth, holding in sounds I can’t name - sobs, screams, something between the two.
Then Dante moves.
He shoves her back. Hard. Hard enough that she stumbles.
A second too late, some part of my brain registers. He pushed her away. He pushed her away.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter because I saw it. I saw her mouth on his mouth, saw his hands not moving fast enough, saw everything I’ve been trying not to see for a year.
I knew, whispers something deep in my gut. Somewhere, I already knew. And I dressed up anyway like a fucking idiot.
My legs unlock. I turn around.
Walking back to the elevator feels like moving through water. Everything is slow and thick and wrong. The champagne carpeting stretches endlessly. My hand is shaking as I press the down button.
Don’t scream. Don’t cry. Don’t let them hear you.
Don’t let her see that she broke you.
The elevator doors open. I step inside. Catch my reflection in the mirrored walls - red dress, smeared mascara, a woman who looks nothing like the one who rode up twenty minutes ago.
The dress looks like a costume now. A costume for a role I’m not playing anymore.
My hand finds the lobby button. My legs give out. I slide down the elevator wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees to my chest, hand still pressed against my mouth.
The doors close.
And I shatter.
***
The cab driver keeps glancing in the rearview mirror.
“You okay, lady?”
“Fine.” My voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Just drive. Please.”
He shuts up after that. The city slides past the windows - all those lit apartments, all those lives happening inside them. None of them know that my marriage just ended in an office building on 57th Street.
My phone buzzes. Sophia: How’d it go????
I stare at the screen. What would I even say? Great, actually. Watched my husband kiss his assistant. Having a normal one.
I don’t respond.
The wine bottle is still there. Lying on the carpet outside his office like trash. Five years I saved that bottle.
Five years, I think. That’s how long we’ve been married. That’s how long she’s been waiting.
The cab stops. I pay in cash, don’t wait for change, don’t look back.
***
The apartment is dark.
I don’t turn on the lights. Don’t need them. This is still my home for another - what, hour? Less? However long it takes to pack a bag and get the hell out.
The bedroom closet gives up a suitcase. The one from our honeymoon, covered in airport stickers. Those stickers used to mean adventure. Used to mean Dante holding my hand in foreign cities, promising me the world.
Lies, I think. All of it. Lies.
Sweaters go in the suitcase. Jeans. Underwear. My hands are shaking now - finally - and I keep dropping things, keep having to pick them up and try again.
The mirror catches my reflection. Still in the red dress. Still wearing the makeup I spent an hour applying. Still wearing-
The ring.
I look down at my left hand. My grandmother’s ring, twisted halfway around my finger, diamond pointing the wrong way.
Dante noticed at the wedding. “We should get that resized.”
We never did.
I pull it off.
It slides free like it’s been waiting for permission. No resistance. No fight. Like it stopped fitting months ago and I just kept wearing it anyway.
Because I did, I think. I kept wearing it so I wouldn’t have to admit what I already knew.
The bathroom counter is cold under my fingers as I set the ring down. The diamond catches the light, throwing tiny rainbows onto the tile.
This is real, I think. I’m actually leaving.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Dante: Where are you?
Then: Security said you came up.
Then: Nora call me.
Then: Please.
I turn the phone face-down. Keep packing.
I’m folding the last sweater - cashmere, a gift from three Christmases ago - when I hear it.
The key in the door.