9. Elena
— ? —
Elena
I can’t stop thinking about it.
The night before I moved in.
What happened? What could have happened that would make Adrian “so quick” to let Camille stay?
I lie awake until 4 a.m., running scenarios through my head. An argument with me that I don’t remember. A late-night phone call with Camille. Some secret meeting that predates everything I thought I knew about their relationship.
By morning, I’ve convinced myself of at least three different conspiracy theories, none of which make sense.
I need answers.
***
The email takes me an hour to write.
From: Elena Vasquez To: Adrian Vale Subject: Question
What happened the night before Camille moved in?
I delete it. Too aggressive.
What happened October 14th?
Too specific. Like I’m interrogating him.
Someone suggested I should ask you about the night before Camille arrived. What happened?
That’s the one I send.
His response comes twenty minutes later.
Nothing happened. I was at the office until 2 a.m. working on the Tokyo deal. I have keycard logs, security footage of the building, timestamps on my emails…
I stop reading. Of course he has proof. He always has proof.
I type back: I don’t want your logs. I want you to tell me.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
I worked late. I came home around 2:15. You were already asleep. I got into bed without waking you. The next morning, Camille called you crying about her divorce.
That’s it. That’s the whole story.
I know you won’t accept documentation from me. I understand why. But I’m telling you the truth, Elena. Nothing happened that night except me being a workaholic who prioritized a merger over being home with his wife.
Which, honestly, is damning enough.
I read the email three times.
I don’t know if I believe him. But I don’t know if I don’t believe him either.
***
Sarah Miller’s office is sleek and modern, all glass walls and exposed ductwork, the kind of space that appears in architectural magazines with captions about “industrial chic.” She meets me in the lobby with a handshake that’s firm without being aggressive.
“Elena. Thank you for coming in.”
“Thank you for calling.”
She leads me to a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. A contract sits on the table, already flagged with colored tabs indicating where I need to sign.
“The commission is exactly as we discussed in October,” she says, settling into her chair. “Eight chairs, farm table, sideboard with luna moth details. March deadline. I’ve added a rush fee to compensate for the compressed timeline.”
I flip through the pages. The numbers are good, better than good. This commission alone will cover my rent for the next year.
“I have to ask,” I say, setting down the contract. “Why now? You canceled after the divorce news broke.”
Sarah’s expression shifts, something complicated moving behind her eyes. “I was wrong to do that. The showcase reminded me why I wanted to work with you in the first place.”
“The showcase, or Adrian’s speech?”
“Both.” She doesn’t flinch from the directness.
“I won’t pretend his endorsement didn’t reopen the door.
But Elena, I walked through that door because of your work.
The console table was extraordinary. The way you matched the grain, the proportions, the honeybee detail…
that’s not something money can buy. That’s talent. ”
I want to believe her. I want to believe that I earned this, that it’s not just a byproduct of my husband’s public performance.
“There’s something else,” Sarah adds. “Adrian called me yesterday. After the showcase.”
My stomach tightens. “Called you why?”
“To apologize.” She leans back in her chair. “He said he was worried he’d overshadowed your achievement. Made it seem like you needed his help to succeed. He asked me to tell you that if you got this commission, it was because you deserved it, not because of anything he said or did.”
“He asked you to tell me that?”
“Actually, he asked me not to mention his call at all. But I thought you should know.” Sarah smiles slightly. “For what it’s worth, I’ve known Adrian professionally for years. I’ve never heard him talk about anyone the way he talked about you.”
I don’t know what to do with this information. So I pick up the pen and start signing.
***
Sophie is waiting for me at the rooftop bar.
Our bar. The one where everything started four years ago, where Adrian crossed the room to tell me something he didn’t know yet. It looks different in December, string lights replacing the summer lanterns, heat lamps clustered between tables, but it still feels like ours.
“You got the contract?” Sophie slides a glass of champagne toward me as I sit down.
“I got the contract.”
“And?”
“And Adrian apparently called Sarah Miller to apologize for overshadowing me at the showcase. Asked her not to mention it.”
Sophie’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “That’s… actually kind of sweet.”
“It’s confusing is what it is.” I take a long sip of champagne. “I don’t know what he wants.”
“Pretty sure he wants you back.”
“But why? Why now? He had three months of marriage to be this person, present, attentive, actually interested in my work, and instead he spent those months staring at his phone while his mother rearranged my workspace.”
“People change.”
“Do they, though? Or do they just perform change until they get what they want, and then go back to being exactly who they always were?”
Sophie doesn’t answer immediately. She swirls her champagne, watching the bubbles rise.
“Can I say something that might piss you off?”
“You’re going to anyway.”
“There’s a difference between protecting yourself and punishing yourself.” She sets down her glass. “And the way you’ve been handling this, the reversed wire transfers, the refused help, the absolute determination to suffer alone, it feels less like protection and more like penance.”
“Penance for what?”
“For believing in him in the first place. For trusting someone who let you down. For being human enough to fall in love with an imperfect person.”
My throat feels tight. “That’s not fair.”
“Maybe not. But it might be true.” Sophie reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I’m not saying forgive him. I’m not saying trust him. I’m just saying… don’t punish yourself for wanting to.”
I don’t know how to respond. So I finish my champagne and order another round, and we talk about other things, her job, her terrible Hinge dates, the new season of the show we’ve been watching, until the bar closes at midnight and we spill out onto the street, tipsy and laughing.
“Get home safe,” Sophie says, pulling me into a hug. “And think about what I said.”
“I always do.”
“Liar.”
She’s right. But I hug her back anyway.
***
The walk home takes me along the waterfront, past the piers where tourists take photos during the day and couples walk hand in hand at night. My phone buzzes with a text.
Adrian.
I heard you signed the Miller contract. Whatever you decide about us, about everything, I’m proud of you. You did that. Not me. You.
I read it three times.
I don’t respond.
But I save it, in a folder I’ve started keeping of messages I don’t know what to do with.
***
The manila envelope is taped to my apartment door.
No postmark, no return address. Just my name, handwritten in neat block letters, and the words READ IMMEDIATELY underlined twice.
I peel it off the door and carry it inside. My hands are shaking slightly as I tear it open, though I couldn’t say exactly why.
Inside: a sheaf of papers. Medical records, it looks like, printed on letterhead from a gynecologist’s office in Stamford. Camille’s name at the top.
I spread them across my kitchen counter and start reading.
The records are from an exam six weeks ago, early November, well after Camille moved into Vale Manor. Routine gynecological checkup. Blood work, pelvic exam, standard panels.
And at the bottom, in the assessment section: No evidence of pregnancy. Patient denies possibility; states last menstrual period October 28th.
October 28th.
If Camille’s last period was October 28th, she couldn’t possibly be fourteen weeks pregnant now. The math doesn’t just not add up, it’s impossible.
A handwritten note is paper-clipped to the last page:
She’s lying. About everything. A friend
I sink into my desk chair and stare at the papers.
Camille is lying. About the pregnancy, about the father, about all of it.
Which means Adrian might be telling the truth.
Which means everything I thought I knew is wrong.
A friend, the note said. I almost laugh.
I don’t have friends who could pull a gynecologist’s file from a Stamford office.
But Camille used to have a whole life there, and a husband who kept the house, the accounts, and a grudge.
Rick. Of course it’s Rick. Somewhere out there, my sister finally found someone who despises her as much as she taught him to.
I set the papers down. It doesn’t matter who sent them. It only matters that they’re true.