At 2:27 in the morning, I was sitting on our living-room sofa with my back straight and both hands folded in my lap, staring at a mug of chamomile tea that had gone cold nearly an hour earlier

In October of that same year, nine months after the night I rolled my graphite suitcase out of the Back Bay tower, I attended the annual New England Financial Leadership Gala at the Four Seasons Hotel.

It was a black-tie event filled with three hundred of the city’s top executives, attorneys, and venture capitalists.

I wore a floor-length emerald green silk gown with a modest drop neckline, my hair styled in elegant waves over one shoulder. I looked radiant, healthy, and entirely at peace with myself.

I was standing near the grand marble staircase, laughing over a glass of champagne with Sloan Mercer and two managing partners from a major accounting firm, when the crowd parted slightly.

Thain was standing twenty feet away near the bar.

He was wearing a tailored tuxedo, but he was alone. He looked thinner than he used to be, his hair touched with silver at the temples.

Our eyes met across the crowded room.

Nine months ago, that look would have set my heart hammering against my ribs. Now, it produced nothing more than a quiet, distant recognition.

Thain said something to the bartender, picked up his glass of mineral water, and walked slowly toward our group.

Sloan gave me a subtle, questioning glance. I offered a tiny nod, letting her know I was fine.

"Kala," Thain said, stopping a respectful three feet away.

"Thain," I replied, holding my champagne glass steadily. "You look well."

"So do you," he said, his voice quiet against the background roar of the gala conversations. "Emerald was always your color."

"Thank you."

An awkward pause stretched between us—the heavy, undeniable silence of two people who used to share a bed, a home, and a life, now reduced to polite acquaintances at a corporate mixer.

"I saw the announcement for your new firm in the Financial Times last week," Thain said, offering a small, sad smile. "Vance Forensic Strategy. That’s a powerful name."

"It’s doing very well," I said evenly. "We’ve taken on fourteen new corporate cases this quarter."

Thain nodded looking down at his glass. "I’m glad. Truly, Kala. You were always the smart one. I just... I was too arrogant to see it back then."

"How is Vanguard?" I asked, steering the conversation back to neutral ground.

"Growing," he admitted. "The Series B capital allowed us to launch the European portal last month. The board is happy." He paused, looking at me with a soft, vulnerable expression. "Every time I look at the quarterly equity distribution ledger... I see your name."

"It’s a good ledger," I said mildly. "Clean numbers."

He let out a low, breathless laugh—a laugh that carried a deep, lingering regret. "Yeah. Clean numbers."

He looked like he wanted to say a hundred more things. He looked like a man who wanted to apologize for the cold coffee cups, the late nights, the perfume, and the three months of lies that had cost him the only woman who had ever truly loved him for who he was, rather than what he possessed.

But he didn't say any of it.

Because he knew, with absolute clarity, that those words no longer had any currency in my world.

"Have a wonderful evening, Kala," he said softly.

"You too, Thain," I replied.