Chapter 17 Nolan
It’s almost a month since the cohabitation ended, and I’m sleeping on the couch because it smells like him.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I should leave.
I’ve been thinking about it more and more, running the numbers in my head like some kind of financial masochist. The agreement says I can stay here for the remainder of the year, but there’s nothing in it that says I have to.
Mrs. Kay’s room is still available—she mentioned it last week when I stopped by to check on her.
Two hundred a month, utilities included, bathroom down the hall.
I can afford it. It would mean going back to the life I had before: cramped quarters, shared facilities but at least I’d be able to breathe without choking on his scent.
The only thing stopping me is the money itself. Free is free. Two hundred a month is two hundred a month I could be putting toward an emergency fund or future expenses. Perhaps it might even go to towards moment when Erik decides he’s done playing benefactor and pulls the plug on Ellie’s treatment.
That won’t happen, I tell myself. There’s a contract. His own lawyer drew it up. It’s ironclad and binding. He can’t just walk away from his legal obligations because he’s decided I’m not worth the trouble.
But contracts can be broken. I know that better than anyone. Alistair taught me that lesson thoroughly.
I drag myself off the couch and get ready for my hospital visit.
The mirror in the bathroom shows me someone I barely recognize—hollow-eyed, too thin, with the particular grey pallor of someone who hasn’t been eating or sleeping properly.
I’ve lost weight. I’m not sure how much, but my clothes hang differently now, looser in places they didn’t used to be.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
Ellie is sitting up when I arrive, which has become normal now. The treatment is working better than anyone expected. Her color is good, her energy levels are up, and Dr. Burke has started making cautiously optimistic noises about discharge timelines.
It’s everything I wanted. Everything I sold myself for. My sister is getting better, and that’s what matters.
“You look terrible,” Ellie says by way of greeting. It’s become her standard opening line. I’m starting to hate it.
“Thanks. You look great.” I drop into the chair beside her bed, the one I’ve worn a permanent groove into over the past year. “How are you feeling?”
“Better than you, apparently.” She’s watching me with that particular expression she gets when she’s about to push. “Have you eaten today?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Food.”
“Nolan.”
“I had coffee. And a muffin. Blueberry.”
“A muffin isn’t breakfast.” She crosses her arms, which shouldn’t look intimidating coming from someone who weighs maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, but somehow manages anyway.
“When’s the last time you had an actual meal?
With protein and vegetables and things that aren’t made primarily of sugar? ”
I try to remember. Yesterday? The day before? There was definitely something at some point. Probably.
“I’ve been busy,” I say, which isn’t exactly a lie. “Extra shifts at the coffee shop. Job applications. The usual.”
“The usual doesn’t make you lose ten pounds in three weeks.”
“I haven’t lost ten pounds.”
“Your face is thinner. Your clothes are hanging off you. And you’ve got bags under your eyes that could carry groceries.” She reaches over and grabs my hand, her fingers thin but warm. “Nolan. What’s going on?”
Everything. Nothing. I’m living in an apartment that smells like the man who broke my heart for reasons I still don’t understand.
I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face—not the cold version from the last three days of cohabitation, but the other one, the one that looked at me like I was something precious.
I can’t stop thinking about him. That’s the worst part. I should hate him. I do hate him. But I also miss him with an ache that doesn’t fade no matter how many days pass, and I don’t know how to make it stop.
I also know exactly what is happening to my body.
I’m a biochemist. That’s my background. I’m in deep withdrawal.
Those stupid prime match biochemical markers are screwing with my body.
That’s what the cohabitation was all about.
It was about getting me addicted to Erik’s hormones and it worked.
Well, the addiction worked. The relationship didn’t.
I need to do what every drug addict needs to do. I need to go cold turkey and stay cold turkey. At least I will after the meeting at the Bureau that’s coming up. All I need is to wait until he leaves my system.
“I’m fine,” I say, because that’s what I always say. “Just tired. The cohabitation threw off my whole routine, and I’m still adjusting.”
“It’s been three weeks.”
“Adjustment takes time.”
Ellie doesn’t look convinced. She holds my gaze for a long moment.
“Have you heard from him?” she asks finally.
“No.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “And I don’t expect to. We have a Bureau meeting in a few weeks. Other than that, there’s no reason for us to have any contact.”
“You were married to him. You went through a heat together.”
““Can we talk about something else?” I pull my hand away from hers, standing up to pace the small room because I can’t sit still anymore. “Tell me about your treatment.”
Ellie lets me redirect, but I can feel her eyes on me as I move. She’s not buying it. She knows me too well, has spent too many years reading the things I don’t say out loud. But she doesn’t push, and for that I’m grateful.
We spend an hour talking about her recovery, her plans for when she gets out, the college courses she’s been taking online to keep her brain occupied. She’s thinking about going back to school properly once she’s strong enough. Biology, maybe. Or biochemistry.
I encourage her. I ask questions. I make all the right noises in all the right places and the whole time, part of me is somewhere else entirely, trapped in a loop of memory and regret that I can’t seem to break free from.
When visiting hours end, Ellie pulls me into a hug that lasts longer than usual.
“Take care of yourself,” she says against my shoulder. “I mean it. You spent so long taking care of me, you forgot how to take care of you.”
“I’m fine,” I say again, and the lie tastes worse every time I tell it.
I pick up an extra shift after my regular one ends.
It’s not about the money, though I tell myself it is. It’s about having something to do, somewhere to be, a reason not to go back to that apartment.
The evening crowd at the coffee shop is different from the morning rush.
There are more doctors grabbing caffeine between rounds and fewer visitors killing time between hospital visiting hours.
The visitors that are here are people with worry lines etched into their faces, clutching cups they don’t really taste, waiting for news they’re afraid to hear.
I know that waiting. I’ve done it myself, more times than I can count.
Hazel has the night off, so it’s just me and the new kid behind the counter. He’s a good kid—twenty, studying nursing, always has something playing in his earbuds when the shop is quiet. He doesn’t ask questions about my personal life, which is exactly what I need right now.
The hours pass in a blur of espresso shots and steamed milk. By the time we close up at ten, my feet are aching and my back is stiff.
The walk back to the apartment takes three minutes. I take my time, letting the cool night air clear my head. It’s spring, but the nights are still cold and tonight I need that.
The building lobby is quiet when I arrive, the evening security guard barely glancing up from his phone as head through the lift.
When the doors finally open on my floor, I see the envelope immediately. It’s taped to my door. It’s white, legal-sized, my name typed in neat black letters on the front and official-looking in a way that makes my stomach drop before I even touch it.
I peel it off and tear it open right there in the hallway, not bothering to go inside first. Some part of me already knows what it’s going to say.
NOTICE TO VACATE
Dear Mr. West,
This letter serves as formal notice that you are required to vacate the premises within thirty (30) days of receipt of this notice. Your tenancy is being terminated pursuant to Section 4.2(b) of your marital agreement with Nilsson Industries.
Should you have questions regarding this notice, please contact the legal department at the number below.
Sincerely,
Erik Nilsson
CEO, Nilsson Industries
For a moment, I just stare at the paper in my hands. The words don’t make sense. They’re arranged in an order my brain refuses to process, like a sentence in a language I don’t speak.
Then the meaning crashes through, and the fury is immediate and absolute.
That bastard. That absolute bastard. He’s not satisfied with the cold shoulder and the silent treatment, he’s throwing me out of the apartment too.
Maybe I was already thinking about leaving, but that’s different. It was going to be on my own terms, not because he decided to evict me like a tenant who hasn’t paid rent.
It’s late. After eleven. I don’t care.
I pull out my phone and call Sara’s number. She gave it to me during the prenup negotiations, told me to reach out if I had any questions.
She answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?” Her voice is cautious, professional even at this hour.
“I just got an eviction notice. Taped to my door like I’m some kind of squatter.”
A pause. “Mr. West. I’m sorry you had to find out that way.”
“Find out what way? What the hell is going on?”
“Given the circumstances, Mr. Nilsson feels it would be inappropriate for you to continue residing in the property.”
I laugh, and it sounds sharp and ugly even to my own ears. “Inappropriate. Right. He’s the one who offered me the apartment in the first place. What changed?”