Chapter 6 #2
“How many direct attempts from Julian?”
“Two missed calls so far. Margot called and texted. Unknown number left voicemail.”
“Has Julian texted?”
“Not yet.”
“He will. Screenshot before you respond. If you choose to send a final boundary reminder, keep it short. No emotion, no argument. One sentence.”
“Mara has your attorney’s contact.”
“Good. Then block his personal number. Not because the legal process requires it in all cases, but because you already stated the boundary and he is testing access.”
“What about Margot?”
“Do not respond. If she continues, we document. If staff or security contact you, document. If gifts arrive, photograph before touching. Gifts are contact.”
The phrase settled into the kitchen.
Gifts are contact.
Nadia mouthed it silently, then wrote it at the bottom of the legal pad like scripture.
I almost smiled.
Almost was plenty.
“Mara,” I said, “he does not know where I am.”
“Keep it that way.”
“I will.”
“Eat something. Screenshot everything. Call me if anyone appears in person.”
“I will call if anyone appears in person.”
“Better.”
She hung up.
Nadia set a mug of tea in front of me and a plate with toast cut into triangles. She had spread peanut butter to the corners.
“Eat,” she said.
“Did Mara deputize you?”
“No, but I am seeking office.”
I took a bite because refusing would have made the toast into a feeling.
The peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth. The tea was too hot. The radiator clanked once.
Nadia pointed at it. “It does that. If it bangs twice, ignore it. If it bangs three times, hit the pipe with the wooden spoon. If it screams, call me.”
My phone buzzed.
Julian Cross: Where are you?
The words were small on the screen. Plain. Familiar.
My hand closed around the mug before I told it not to.
I set it down carefully.
No burns. No broken mug. No drama for the evidence log.
Nadia took the screenshot while I breathed through my nose.
A second text appeared.
Julian Cross: We need to discuss this without lawyers between us.
Then:
Julian Cross: Elena. Answer me.
There he was. Not cruel. Not pleading. Not yet understanding that access itself had become the injury.
I sent all three screenshots to Mara.
Then I opened the message thread.
The keyboard waited for a wife. I gave it a record.
Mara has your attorney’s contact.
I read it twice.
No apology. No adjective. No open door.
I sent it.
Julian’s reply began almost immediately. The typing bubble appeared, vanished, appeared again.
I did not wait to see what he chose.
I tapped his name, scrolled to the bottom, and blocked his personal number.
The phone asked whether I was sure.
This one, I knew.
I tapped Block Contact.
The thread went quiet.
Nadia exhaled like she had been holding the breath for both of us.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
The phone waited. So did the legal pad. My bare finger rested on the table beside toast crumbs and a pen.
“Under-documented.”
Nadia’s mouth trembled.
Then she laughed once.
I laughed too.
It lasted three seconds and stopped before it became anything else.
We finished unpacking.
Nadia made the bed. I put my folded clothes in the dresser.
We taped a copy of the building superintendent’s number inside the kitchen cabinet and wrote the Wi-Fi password on a second card because Nadia did not trust “traumatized people with network names.” I created a folder on my phone labeled CONTACT LOG and moved the screenshots into it.
Then I took a photograph of the legal pad, the first page already half full.
By seven, the apartment looked less like a borrowed room and more like a temporary decision. Nadia ordered noodles from downstairs and made me choose my own dinner. My phone stayed facedown on the coffee table, quiet now except for Mara’s last text.
Good boundary. Keep documenting.
Good boundary.
Not good wife. Not graceful woman. Not reasonable Mrs. Cross.
Boundary.
The word was plain enough to trust.
When Nadia left at nine, she locked the door from the outside, then made me lock all three locks from the inside while she stood in the hallway and listened.
“Again,” she called through the door.
“They are locked.”
“I want to hear the bolt.”
I slid the brass bolt across.
“Happy?”
“No,” she said. “But better.”
Her footsteps moved down the hall.
For the first time that day, I was alone.
I set my phone to Do Not Disturb with exceptions for Mara and Nadia, then placed the contact log on the kitchen table beside the pen.
In the bedroom, there was no Julian’s water glass, no cuff links, no tie over the valet stand.
Just borrowed sheets and one pillow too flat to be romantic about anything.
My body noticed the missing things before my pride did. It searched the room for the rhythm of his watch on the nightstand, the faint cedar of his closet, the low sound he made when a late call woke him. Then the radiator clicked, the brass bolt held, and the room stayed mine.
Swallowing took effort.
I got into bed without giving the room a speech.
At 6:42 the next morning, my phone lit on the crate I was using as a nightstand.
I sat up so fast the flat pillow slid to the floor.
Nadia: Are you awake?
I stared at the message.
Another appeared before I could answer.
Nadia: Courier just came to my office reception. Says delivery for you, care of me.
My stomach dropped.
I called her.
“He does not have this address,” I said when she answered.
“No,” Nadia said. “He has mine. Public office, front desk, annoyed receptionist.”
“What is it?”
There was a pause. A rustle of paper. Nadia’s breathing, short and furious.
“Flowers,” she said.
I closed my eyes.
Gifts are contact.
“How many?”
“Twenty-four white roses.” Another pause. “And a card.”
I gripped the phone until the edge pressed into my palm.
“Do not open it.”
“I already saw the outside.”
“Nadia.”
Her voice softened by a degree. That made it worse. “It is in Julian’s handwriting.”
The next morning, a courier delivered twenty-four white roses and a card in Julian’s handwriting.