Every suit, every pair of stilettos, every golf club, every shared kitchen gadget they’d bought together.

I hadn’t destroyed a single item. I had packed them with the same chilling, meticulous care I applied to my spreadsheets.

Rachel’s mouth fell open. “You packed my entire condo?” “I had plenty of free time.” Ethan drifted toward the boxes like a man in a trance. He read the Sharpie labels.

Office. Winter Wear. Sporting Goods. He stopped at a small box labeled Sentimental. He peeled back the tape and looked inside. The framed photos of our vacations, our wedding, carefully wrapped in bubble wrap.

He turned back to me, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “You packed the memories. You’re just throwing it all away.” “Those memories belong to your narrative now. They’re useless to me.”

Guilt, genuine and visceral, washed over his features. “Olivia… please. I’ll end it. Right now.” Rachel gasped, stepping back as if she’d been slapped.