Chapter Twenty-Six
KATERINA
I don’t leave my bedroom for two days.
It’s stupid, because the penthouse my grandmother put me in is objectively beautiful.
It has floor-to-ceiling windows, white marble floors, fresh flowers that appear every morning like magic.
There’s a view of the Sound, a piano no one plays, and a walk-in closet bigger than my entire bedroom in the penthouse that Scottie leased for us.
And I hate all of it.
I pull the blackout curtains. I curl up on top of the duvet in Scottie’s oversized t-shirt that still smells like him, and I cry until I’m empty. Then I lie there staring at the ceiling, dry-eyed and hollow, replaying the last forty-eight hours like a movie I can’t shut off.
The look on his face when I told him to move on.
The way his voice broke when he said, “I’m in love with you, Kat.”
The way I walked away, anyway.
My phone is a constant, buzzing accusation on the nightstand.
Missed call: Luka. Missed call: Scottie. Missed call: Scottie. Missed call: Luka
Group text: WAG Chat – Hawkeyes Wives I get it.
“Listen to me, Katerina. I love you. I will support you even when I think you’re making a horrible decision. But promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t disappear,” she says. “Not from me. Not from the girls. Not from yourself. If you’re going to do this—if you’re going to break his heart to save his father, then you at least owe it to yourself to keep living.
Do you understand? Call me. Text me. Let me be mad with you. Grieve with you. Don’t do this alone.”
My throat clenches.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I promise. Will you be my maid of honor at my second wedding? It’ll be stuffy, boring, and outrageously expensive to show off before his election coming up.”
“I would love to, and this speech will be my best work yet,” she says, and I can only imagine the shocking things she’s going to say.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re going to be okay. No matter what happens.”
“I know.”
I hang up feeling… not better, exactly. But less alone. Like, there’s at least one person in the world who knows the truth, besides my grandmother and me.
Rehearsal is a blur.
My body moves on autopilot. The director gives notes I absorb and respond to because that’s what I do, but my mind keeps sliding back to the locker room hallway, to Scottie’s face as I told him I wanted out.
Tell me you can see me happy with someone else, he said, and you’re going to be okay with it.
I lied.
I said he should move on.
I stuck the knife in and twisted.
The image of him with puck bunnies hurts; the idea of him marrying Anika and being happy hurts worse, but I don’t want him sad and lonely either. I don’t want him stuck with my fate. He has so much love to offer someone.
By the time rehearsal ends, my muscles are shaking. Not just from overwork but from carrying this secret, from holding myself together through an entire run-through when all I wanted to do was curl up on the floor and sob.
In the dressing room, the other dancers chatter about weekend plans, about new Pilates studios, about a guy in props who’s actually good-looking if you can get past the mustache, plus he’s great with a drill.
I shower, dress, and check my phone.
No new calls from Scottie. No new calls from Luka.
Just a new email at the top of my inbox.
From: Sokolov & Daughters, LLP – Popovich Legal Affairs Subject: Marital Dissolution – Questionnaire & Scheduling
My stomach drops.
I tap it open with numb fingers.
Dear Mrs. Easton,
As per your grandmother’s instructions, we are preparing the necessary documents to dissolve formally your marriage to Mr. Scottie James Easton. To expedite the process and minimize public attention, please reply to this email with the following information:
Confirmation of your current legal name and address.
Confirmation of your preference regarding restoration of your maiden name.
A list of any marital property or items belonging to you currently located at the shared residence at The Commons.
A preferred date/time within the next five (5) business days to sign your portion of the dissolution documents at our Seattle office.
Upon receipt, we will prepare the documents and contact Mr. Easton (or his legal representative) to schedule his signing appointment.
Respectfully,
Elena Sokolova, Esq. Sokolov & Daughters, LLP
My vision blurs halfway through.
Items of marital property. What exactly counts as marital property in a fake marriage that became the most real thing I’ve ever had?
The ring I left on his dresser? The photos on the console table? The memories of his hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, his laugh in my bed?
I stare at the blinking cursor in the reply window.
1. Name and address I could fill that in. 2. Maiden name I haven’t decided yet if I can bear to let go of Easton when I never really got to keep it. Especially since it’s bound to change to Volkov soon enough. 3. Marital property All I can think of is his t-shirt I took and the wedding picture.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
And I type the bare minimum. At the very least, I should make this as quick and painless for both of us as I can. The sooner this is over, the sooner Scottie really can move on.
The only thing holding me together is the knowledge that somewhere out there a doctor is about to call Scottie’s family and tell them there’s sudden hope.
I close the email with a short reply.
Somewhere across the city, Scottie is lacing up his skates, getting ready for another game.
He probably thinks I’m in New York, staring a new life without him. Moving back in with Irina.
He has no idea I’m in a different kind of cage again, one with legal terms and family legacy and a diamond necklace I’ll never wear.
“I’m sorry. I chose you. You just… don’t get to know.”