“They say that in New York, too, Brenda,” Mark’s voice came from the window, calm and dry.
The nurse blushed and hurried out. I looked at Mark. He didn’t look like a billionaire. He looked like a man who read paper books and knew how to be quiet.
“Is it true?” I asked.
“It’s just information, Jessica. It doesn’t change the broth.”
Cliffhanger: He left the hospital the same day I did. He insisted on driving me home. As we pulled up to my five-story walk-up, I saw a moving van pulling away from the curb—Evan was officially gone, and the emptiness of my life was about to be laid bare.
Chapter 4: The Architecture of an Empty Room
The apartment smelled of stale air and a haunting, clinical emptiness. My eyes immediately went to the living room. The spot where Evan’s throne-like armchair had sat was now a glaring, naked rectangle on the carpet. The floor lamp was gone. The coat rack was bare, save for my single, lonely trench coat.
Mark carried my bag up the three flights of stairs, ignoring my protests. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and frowned.
“I’m going to get groceries,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that, Mark. You just had surgery, too.”
“I can’t lift more than five pounds, but I can certainly push a cart. It’s a medical fact, Jessica, not an opinion. You need to eat.”
