I walked back into my office and sat at my heavy oak desk.

I opened my checkbook.

Today was a specific date.

It was the date that was supposed to be my three-month wedding anniversary.

I picked up my pen and wrote out a check for a substantial, life-changing sum.

It was made out to the women’s shelter in Brooklyn that had discreetly provided me with the encrypted phones and the legal resources to safely build my exit plan under Adrian’s watchful eye.

I signed the bottom of the check in confident, sweeping letters.

Not in Adrian Blackwell’s name.

In mine. Clara Jane Sterling.