Chapter Twenty-Eight #2
“Correct,” the receptionist says gently, misreading my silence. “She was visibly shaken, I would say… maybe a blood sugar issue. Sometimes it’s difficult for people, even when they’re the ones who initiated it. Would you like some water before—”
“No,” I say abruptly. “I… actually think I need more time too.”
Her brows climb. “Oh. Of course. Do you want to reschedule your signing appointment?”
I take a breath.
Every rational part of my brain says: Just sign. She wants out. Give it to her.
But something small and stubborn and loud is suddenly awake and clawing at my insides.
She didn’t sign. She’s holed up with bodyguards. She’s ghosted her brother, the girls, and everyone except me long enough to send a clipped text.
Her grandmother tried to buy me off, and days later, a miracle trial spot opened up for my father out of nowhere.
“Actually,” I say slowly, “I think I’ll wait until my… wife has signed first. Just to make sure it’s what she really wants. I’ll reach out to Ms. Sokolova if I decide to move forward.”
The receptionist looks mildly confused but smiles professionally. “Of course, Mr. Easton. I’ll make a note in the file.”
The second I hit the elevator, my pulse starts hammering.
In the limo, her grandmother had an offer. Five times your contract to divorce her, she said. She mentioned that Kat might break up with me anyway and that I would lose the money; then Kat broke up with me anyway.
I can’t believe I forgot about it. Maybe because Katerina made her new opportunity in New York seem believable. Maybe because a deep part of me always worried I was still her temporary plan so when she said it in the hallway outside of the locker room, I believed her.
By the time I hit the sidewalk, that small piece of hope has become something else.
I dig my phone out of my pocket and scroll to the clinical trial email, the one with my dad’s enrollment paperwork. There’s a number in the header for “patient inquiries.”
I hit call with exact precision, like a slapshot right on target.
It rings twice.
“Dr. Markov’s office, how may I direct your call?” A woman’s voice, lightly accented.
“Hi, uh, my name is Scottie Easton,” I say. “My father, Arnold Easton, was just accepted into your nerve regeneration trial. I just had a couple of questions about his enrollment.”
“Of course,” she says. “One moment while I pull up his file.”
There’s a clack of keys, a silence broken only by my breathing and the rush of distant cars.
“Yes, I see here,” she says. “Mr. Arnold Easton. Enrolled under the Markov Protocol, Cohort Seven.”
“Right,” I say. “They mentioned it was a sponsored spot. That there was some kind of… I don’t know, special opening? I just wanted to understand what that meant. Sponsored by who?”
There’s a pause.
“I’m afraid there might have been some confusion,” she says politely. “Our clinic does not offer sponsored or pro bono positions. All patients in this program are privately funded.”
My scalp prickles. “But they told my mom—”
She’s continuing already. “In your father’s case, there is a note on file that his participation fees were paid via a single lump-sum transaction from a private benefactor.”
“Benefactor,” I repeat, my voice going flat.
“Yes, one-time payment,” she confirms. “We do not have permission to disclose their identity, I’m sorry. But I can assure you that the account is fully settled. Your father’s place is secure.”
One-time payment.
My grandmother’s voice echoes in my head: I am willing to offer you five times the value of your current five-year contract. Upfront. Wired to your account today.
She wanted to buy me off–I said no.
Now there’s a mysterious benefactor paying a one-time lump sum for my dad’s trial spot… right after Kat broke my heart and moved out under her grandmother’s control.
My free hand curls into a fist.
“Thank you,” I manage. “That… clears it up.”
I hang up and just stand there outside the building, everything clicking into place.
Not perfectly, there are still holes, but this is starting to make more sense than Katerina dumping me for a spot in New York, and ghosting everyone who loves her.
She must have told her grandmother that my father didn’t get in, and she knew she had the connection to make it happen.
Her grandmother used it as leverage. I don’t know what the entire agreement was, but I won’t know until I go to the source and ask myself.
Something tells me that she didn’t leave because she stopped loving me.
She left because someone told her that my father’s future depended on it.
It doesn’t make the things she said in that hallway hurt less, or how the sound of her saying I miss New York, we were always temporary, sting less. And it sure as hell doesn’t fix the fact that she lied to my face.
But it also changes everything, because she gave up something to save my father and give us a better life. What I don’t know is… what did she give up if she still gets New York?
My next call goes to Luka.
He answers on the second ring. “What’s up?”
“We’re going to the ballet tomorrow night,” I say, no preamble.
There’s a beat. “What?”
“Her last show,” I say. “We’re going.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks carefully. “You’ve already been through—”
“I’m sure.” My voice is certain. “Something’s wrong, and I’m done sitting back and letting other people decide what happens to her. Or to me. Your grandmother bribed her somehow and is the one who got my dad into the trial. She’s paying for it too… I just need confirmation.”
“I knew something was up,” he says. “Fuck yeah, let’s go. Text me the time, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Wear a suit,” I add, because if we’re going to war, we might as well look good.
He snorts. “You’re such a dumbass romantic.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking up at the cloudy Seattle sky. “Apparently I am.”
I hang up, shove the phone back in my pocket, and start walking.
For the first time in days, my steps feel sure.
I don’t know what I’m going to say to her yet.
I don’t know how I’m going to convince her that I know, or that I’m not letting her ruin her own life to save mine.
But I know this:
Tomorrow night, when that curtain rises, I’ll be there.
Watching the woman I married dance her last dance thinking we’re over.
And when it falls?
She’ll have one last chance to tell me she doesn’t love me.
Otherwise, I’m not walking away a second time.