Chapter 7
Simon
The click of the deadbolt echoed through the quiet house, sounding like a gunshot.
Simon remained on his knees on the cold hardwood floor for a long time.
The house around him felt entirely alien.
The hum of the refrigerator, the afternoon sunlight slanting across the marble island, the faint scent of Audrey’s jasmine hand soap—it was all exactly the same, yet it belonged to a life he was no longer a part of.
He slowly pushed himself up. His legs felt weak, his joints aching as if he had just been in a physical wreck. He looked at the kitchen island. The broken anniversary bracelet and the printed photograph were still lying there, a monument to his failure.
He didn't touch them. He didn't deserve to.
Instead, Simon turned to the six black garbage bags leaning against the custom cabinets. He grabbed the plastic drawstrings of the first two. They were heavy, filled haphazardly with his suits, shoes, and casual clothes.
Dragging them out of the kitchen felt like dragging a corpse. The thick plastic scraped loudly against the pristine hardwood floors—a harsh, ugly sound that made his stomach churn. He hauled them down the hallway, through the foyer, and out the front door.
The late afternoon air was crisp and painfully normal. Across the street, Mrs. Williams was watering her hydrangeas. A dog barked a few houses down. Simon ignored the potential audience, his face burning with a mix of profound humiliation and absolute self-loathing.
He popped the trunk of his sedan and threw the bags inside. He walked back into the house two more times, repeating the grueling, pathetic process. On the final trip, he grabbed his toothbrush and a stray charger from the entryway table, leaving his house keys sitting alone on the console.
He pulled the front door shut. It locked automatically behind him.
Simon walked down the driveway, got into the driver’s seat of his car, and slammed the door. The silence of the insulated cabin wrapped around him, thick and suffocating.
He gripped the steering wheel, his chest heaving as he fought a second wave of violent, choking tears. He wanted to scream. He wanted to drive his car into a brick wall. But beneath the suffocating grief, a different emotion was rapidly taking shape, burning through the fog of panic like acid.
Rage.
It was directed entirely at himself, but it required an immediate outlet. He grabbed his phone from his pocket, his thumb swiping aggressively across the screen. He didn't even look at his contacts. He just hit the recent call log and pressed David’s name.
The phone connected to the car’s Bluetooth system, ringing loudly through the speakers.
"Simon!" David answered on the second ring, his voice booming and jovial. "Just the man I wanted to talk to. The caterer for the Miller account is pushing back on the—"
"I'm quitting, David," Simon interrupted, his voice a harsh, unrecognizable rasp.
The line went dead silent for three full seconds.
"Excuse me?" David finally said, a nervous chuckle edging into his tone. "Is this a joke? Because with the gala season we have coming up, my blood pressure can't take—"
"It's not a joke," Simon said, his grip on the phone tightening until the metal casing dug painfully into his palm. "I am resigning from Lumière Events. Effective immediately. I am not coming in tomorrow. I am not finishing the Miller account. I am done."
"Simon, you're a senior partner!" David shouted, the joviality vanishing, replaced by sharp, panicked anger. "You can't just walk out! We have contracts. You have a non-compete. What the hell is going on? Where are you right now?"
"I'm sitting in my driveway," Simon said, the words tasting like blood in his mouth. "With my entire life packed into garbage bags in my trunk."
David hesitated, his tone shifting from angry to utterly bewildered. "What? What happened?"
"Emily happened," Simon spat, the name feeling like poison on his tongue.
He didn't care about his professional reputation anymore.
His reputation was worthless. He wanted to salt the earth.
"I made the worst mistake of my life and slept with her after the warehouse crisis two weeks ago.
I ended it. I told her I would never do it again, and in retaliation, she took a photo of me while I was asleep and emailed it to my wife this morning. "
"Jesus Christ," David breathed.
"I am a wreck, David, and I am entirely to blame," Simon continued, his voice shaking with volatile, unrestrained emotion.
"But Emily is a liability. She is vindictive, she is toxic, and if you keep her around, she will eventually burn your firm to the ground just like she did my marriage.
But that's your problem now. I am severing all ties.
If she tries to contact me, I will file a restraining order. "
"Simon, wait. Let's talk about this. We can put you on a leave of absence. We can transfer Emily to the Chicago office—"
"There is no 'talk about this,' David," Simon interrupted, the absolute finality of his ruined life settling heavily onto his shoulders. "Lumière cost me my wife. I'm not giving it another second of my life."
He pulled the phone away from his ear and hit End Call.
The Bluetooth disconnected. The car returned to its agonizing silence.
Simon dropped his phone onto the passenger seat. He had just detonated his decade-long career in a ninety-second phone call. He had no job, no income, and no place to sleep tonight. He had burned the bridge completely.
But as he sat in the driveway, staring blankly at the closed front door of his home, he realized the horrifying truth.
Firing Emily and quitting his job didn't fix anything. The grand, dramatic gesture meant absolutely nothing to the woman locked inside the house. The email was already sent. The bracelet was already broken.
He put the car in reverse, backed out of the driveway, and drove away from his family, having absolutely no idea where to go.