Gone Before The First Snow

1 Two years into our marriage, I realized my husband, Carter, shared a language with his childhood foster sister that left no room for me. She called him "Car-Car." He called her "Starla." She was twenty-three years old, but the moment she walked through our front door, she’d throw her arms around Carter’s neck, tipping up on her toes to press her lips to his cheek. Carter would catch her with an easy, practiced laugh, his palm settling naturally against the small of her back. The first time I saw it after we moved in together, my fork hovered an inch above my plate. Carter caught my eye and shrugged it off. "We’ve been doing that since we were kids, Nora. Don’t make a production out of it." On our second wedding anniversary, I booked a table at a Michelin-starred restaurant downtown. I had my dress on, my hair done, my jacket in hand. Carter was about to step out the door when his phone rang. He hung up thirty seconds later, giving me an apologetic, helpless smile. "Starla’s having terrible stomach cramps," he said. "I need to run her to the ER. I’ll make it up to you later tonight, okay?" "Later" turned out to be one in the morning. When he finally walked into the bedroom, there was a smear of coral lipstick on his shirt collar, right above his collarbone. He saw me sitting up in bed and instantly knit his brows in defensive exhaustion. "She threw up," he blurted out before I could open my mouth. "It bumped against me while I was holding her up over the sink. Jesus, Nora, tell me you’re not going to be jealous over a stomach virus." I didn't say a word. The next morning, while running his dry cleaning down to the laundry room, a crumpled piece of paper slipped from his coat pocket. It was a movie ticket stub dated yesterday’s date—eight-thirty p.m. On the back, drawn in blue ballpoint pen, was a lopsided star next to a scrawled note: Car-Car, this is our little secret code, okay? I put the stub back in his pocket, went upstairs, and pulled my suitcase out of the closet. People doubled over in agonizing pain don't sit through a two-hour midnight romantic comedy. And I was done waiting up until one in the morning. "It’s three in the morning. What the hell are you doing with a suitcase?" Carter stood in the bedroom doorway, still wrapped in the lingering chill of the night air and the faint, sharp sting of hospital disinfectant. He stared at the hand luggage I was packing. "Work trip," I said, pulling the zipper shut with a harsh, metallic scrape. "You didn't say anything about a work trip." He stepped into the room, reaching out with an automatic, soothing gesture to cover my hand. "What kind of art consultant goes out of town on a Sunday morning? Are you seriously still sulking because Starla ruined my shirt?" I pulled my hand back, stepping out of his reach as I stood up. "No." "Nora, whenever you say 'no' in that tone, it means 'yes.'" He let out a long, weary sigh, a mix of bone-deep fatigue and condescending indulgence. "Starla doesn't have anyone else in Chicago. Her parents died when she was little, and my family raised her. When she’s doubled over in pain, who else is she supposed to call?" "What did the doctor say?" "Acute gastroenteritis. They gave her a shot, and she fell asleep." I looked straight into his eyes. "Did they give her the shot in row F of the AMC theater downtown?" Carter froze. The bedroom went dead silent. I reached into my trench coat pocket, pulled out the ticket stub, and laid it on the nightstand between us. Under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, the scrawled star looked grotesquely bright. "Cute code," I said quietly. Carter’s eyes dropped to the paper. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Nora, that’s... it’s a misunderstanding." "What part of it?" "She felt better after we left urgent care. She said she was stressed and wanted a distraction, so we caught a late movie." "A girl vomiting from stomach cramps suddenly wanted buttered popcorn and a comedy at midnight?" "She’s young, Nora! She acts on impulse, she’s like a kid—" He stepped closer, reaching out to wrap an arm around my shoulders. "Today was supposed to be our anniversary. I messed up. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you tomorrow, alright? Anywhere you want to go." I looked at the faint pink smudge on his crisp white collar. It was positioned at an impossibly deliberate angle. When a person vomits, they don't press their lips precisely against the top button of a man’s dress shirt. "Don't bother," I said, picking up my suitcase. "Where are you actually going?" "To check on the build-out for the new studio space in South Loop." "At three in the morning?" "Yes." He stepped in front of the bedroom door, his face darkening into a scowl. "Nora, enough is enough. I’ve explained it to you. How long are you going to throw a tantrum over this?" A tantrum. He always thought I was throwing a tantrum. Five years ago, when my father passed away, I stood alone in a pouring rainstorm at the cemetery, coordinating the funeral arrangements with numb hands. Carter wasn't there. He was in Miami with Starla because she’d just gone through a bad breakup and needed a beach trip to "heal." I couldn't get ahold of him for thirty-six hours. Afterward, he’d told me: “You’re so strong and independent, Nora. I knew you’d handle it. Starla’s fragile. She can’t be left alone.” In two years of marriage, that logic had played out a hundred times. A quiet chime echoed from the nightstand. Carter’s phone screen lit up with a lock-screen notification. Starla: Car-Car, I’m back in bed! Tonight was so much fun. Next time, let’s go just the two of us again without your wife, okay? Shh, secret! Carter caught sight of the banner. A flicker of genuine panic crossed his features. "She’s just joking, Nora—" "She’s hilarious," I said, stepping past him into the hallway. He didn't follow me down the stairs. But as I reached the front door, his voice cut through the empty house behind me. "If you walk out that door tonight, Nora, don't expect me to come running after you tomorrow!" The heavy oak door clicked shut. The December wind cut straight through my coat as I stepped onto the porch. The Uber I’d called was waiting at the curb. The driver popped the trunk and loaded my suitcase. "Where to, ma'am?" "South Loop. Astra Gallery." Astra Gallery was the independent art space I’d spent six months preparing. My debut exhibition was scheduled for next month. As the car glided through the sleeping, snow-dusted city, my phone vibrated. I opened the smart-lock app connected to our townhouse. A notification popped up: Front door unlocked 5 minutes ago. Carter had already left the house. I didn't need a GPS to know where he was going. He was running back to the helpless, fearful "sister" who couldn't sleep in the dark. I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window and closed my eyes. A moment later, Instagram pinged. Starla had just posted a picture to her story. It was a close-up of two hands intertwined—fingers tightly laced—against the backdrop of a 24-hour diner over two bowls of steaming soup. The caption read: My stomach hurts, but drinking late-night soup with the person who always chooses you makes everything sweet. She’d set the privacy settings so only I could see it. I didn't like it. I didn't screenshot it. I simply closed the app, tossed the phone onto the leather seat beside me, and looked out at the dark street. Astra Gallery was dark and silent when I arrived at three-thirty. I pushed open the double glass doors and flipped on every track light in the building. In the center of the main showroom stood my prize canvas—the centerpiece of my upcoming show. I’d titled it Imbalance. It depicted a massive, rusted scale, tilted violently to one side. On the high, lifted side sat a single, weightless white feather. On the crushed, sunken side lay a jagged, brutal stone. I picked up my palette and stood in front of the frame. The scale had tipped a long time ago, Carter. It was time for me to step off. "Nora? What are you doing here so early?" At eight in the morning, my assistant, Annie, walked through the front doors and gasped, startled to see me. "Couldn't sleep," I said softly. "Jesus, your eyes are bloodshot. Did you stay up all night?" "A bit." I set down my brushes, walked into the back restroom, and splashed freezing water over my face. When I stepped back out into the lobby, the front doors pushed open again. Carter walked in wearing yesterday’s wool topcoat, his expression tense. Right behind him was Starla. She wore an oversized white puffer jacket and a fluffy faux-fur beanie, looking like a delicate, wide-eyed winter rabbit. "Nora!" Starla squeaked, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. She reached out and wrapped both hands around Carter’s arm, squeezing tight. "Car-Car said you were here, so I insisted he bring me over! Oh my gosh, your gallery is just gorgeous!" I looked at their tangled arms, my voice flat. "What are you doing here?" Carter cleared his throat, pulling his arm out of her grip, though he didn't take a step away from her. "Starla’s brand launch livestream is next week. Her production team needs a venue with an elevated, artistic aesthetic." I stared at him. "And?" "I thought this place would be perfect," he said, his tone casual, carrying that subtle, unquestioned authority he always assumed in our relationship. "The second floor is mostly empty anyway. Let her use half of it." 2 "No." The refusal was sharp, immediate, and left zero room for negotiation. Starla’s smile froze. She shrank back behind Carter’s shoulder, her big eyes filling with tears in an instant. "Nora... is this because I asked Car-Car to go to the movies with me last night?" She bit her lower lip, her voice trembling. "If you’re mad at me, I’m so, so sorry. Please don't take it out on my work..." Carter’s expression hardened into an angry scowl. "Nora, stop being so bitter and childish." He took a step toward me. "I put up half the seed money to get this gallery open. Legally, this space is marital property." I looked at his self-righteous face. "You provided a bridge loan, Carter. Which I signed a legal promissory note for, and which I’ve been paying back to your account monthly with four percent interest." I pointed toward the glass front doors. "The lease for this building is in my name alone. Get out." Carter clearly hadn't anticipated me cutting him off so ruthlessly in public. Usually, to keep the peace and preserve my own dignity, I swallowed my pride and compromised. "Did you take the wrong medication today?" he muttered, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. "Starla’s stream launches next Monday, and her location fell through. She’s a young woman trying to build something from scratch—as her sister-in-law, why can't you just extend a hand?" "Extend a hand?" I let out a dry, bitter laugh. "If she wants an artistic aesthetic, she can rent an actual studio. The second floor is my private workspace and storage area. It’s full of unreleased, original canvas drafts that cannot be exposed to dust or chaos." "I told you she’d be careful!" "She’s bringing a production crew of fifteen people with lights, heavy gear, and racks of clothes. How is that careful?" Starla tugged gently on Carter’s sleeve, her voice dripping with meek despair. "Car-Car, forget it. If Nora doesn't want me here, I’ll just cancel the stream. It’s fine... I’ll just pay the breach-of-contract penalties to my sponsors." She let a single, perfect tear spill down her cheek. "I’m used to it anyway. I’ve been an orphan my whole life. I know what it feels like to be looked down on." Carter’s temper instantly flared into a blaze. "Who the hell is looking down on you?" He whirled around to glare at me. "Nora, do you really have to make a miserable scene out of everything?" "You brought her into my place of business!" "What do you mean, your place? We’re married! What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine!" He gestured aggressively toward the stairs leading to the second floor. "She’s using the space today. End of story." He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "Hey, Frank? Yeah, bring three guys from your moving crew down to Astra Gallery right now. Yeah, South Loop. We need to clear out half of the second-floor storage." I stood perfectly still, watching him make the call with practiced efficiency. Annie was beside herself with anxiety, pulling frantically on my cardigan. "Nora, we can't let them move those canvases! Some of those pieces are unframed!" "Don't stop them," I murmured. I looked at Carter. "Are you absolutely sure you want strangers touching my work?" "I’m just helping you optimize the space," he said coldly, hanging up his phone. He stepped closer, his tone shifting into that familiar, transactional sweetness he used whenever he wanted to smooth things over. "Nora, stop acting up. Once Starla gets through this launch, I’ll book us a two-week ski trip to Whistler, okay? Just you and me." A slap to the face, followed by a piece of candy. It was his favorite trick. "Don't touch me," I said, shoving his hand away. His face turned thunderous. "You are completely impossible." The moving crew arrived within twenty minutes. Three burly men carrying dollies and furniture pads pushed past the front desk toward the stairs. I didn't physically block them. Instead, I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and set the camera to high-definition video recording. "Nora, what are you doing?" Starla asked, fluttering over in an attempt to block my lens. "Documenting," I said smoothly, stepping around her. "Filing video evidence of Mr. Bennett illegally trespassing on commercial leased property and endangering high-value fine art." Carter snatched the phone right out of my hands. "Have you lost your mind?!" "Give me back my phone." "Nora, if you keep acting like a psychotic child, don't come asking me to cover the final construction installment for the gallery next month!" He was threatening my livelihood. I stared at him, and suddenly, a wave of dark, hollow amusement washed over me. "Fine," I nodded slowly. "Don't worry about the final payment. But if a single piece of paper on that second floor goes missing or gets damaged, I am calling the Chicago Police Department directly." Starla pulled on Carter’s coat again. "Car-Car... she’s really mad. Maybe we should go..." "We’re not going anywhere. Move the crates," Carter barked at the workers, forcing his way up the stairs to supervise. I walked over to the lounge area on the main floor, sat down on the velvet sofa, and poured myself a paper cup of water. From upstairs came the heavy scraping of wooden furniture being dragged across hardwood, punctuated by Starla’s high-pitched, bossy instructions. "Put that rack over there! No, that easel is blocking the light, just shove it into the corner!" Annie was on the verge of tears. "Nora, how can you just sit there and let them do this?" I took a sip of the water. It was ice cold. "If I don't let them move it, Annie, how am I supposed to calculate the damages?" Half an hour later, Starla trotted down the stairs, dusting off her hands. "Nora! We cleared out half the floor. Thanks so much!" She walked up to my sofa, leaning down so close that only I could hear her whisper: "Honestly, I didn't even need the venue that badly. I just wanted to see who he’d choose when push came to shove—you, or me." She gave me a sweet, innocent smile. "Looks like you lost, sister-in-law." I set my paper cup down on the glass table. "Did I? Let’s see if you’re still smiling after your livestream next week." Carter walked down the stairs, wiping a light bead of sweat from his forehead. "It’s all set up. I had them put a privacy screen down the middle, so it won't interfere with your painting." He reached out out of habit, trying to pat the top of my head. I pulled my head back sharply, avoiding his palm. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air. "Let’s get dinner tonight," he offered, trying to reset his tone. "I made a reservation at that omakase place you love." "No." "Nora, I’ve given you a dozen olive branches today. Don't throw them back in my face." His patience was entirely spent. "Car-Car, if Nora doesn't want to go, don't force her," Starla chimed in, wrapping her arm back through his. "Take me instead! I’m starving!" Carter threw me one last, cold look. "Fine. Suit yourself." He turned and left with Starla. The gallery fell dead silent once more. I stood up, walked up the stairs, and stepped onto the second floor. My carefully organized studio space was a disaster. Canvas racks were rammed against each other; delicate, half-finished pencil drafts were crumpled and shoved carelessly into storage boxes. And worst of all—my locked, temperature-controlled archival cabinet had been dragged out of its dark corner and pushed directly under the south-facing window. Brilliant, unfiltered sunlight poured through the glass, baking the cabinet doors. Inside that cabinet was the most precious thing I owned. I walked over, my hand touching the metal handle. My fingertips were trembling. The heavy stone on the scale had just gotten heavier. "Annie," I called down the stairs. "Yes, Nora?" "Call my corporate lawyer. Tell him I need him to draft a legal separation and property division agreement." Annie gasped from the bottom of the stairs. "Right now?" "Right now," I said, looking out at the harsh winter sun burning through the window. "As fast as humanly possible." 3 A week later, Starla’s production crew officially took over the second floor of Astra Gallery. Ring lights, heavy aluminum stands, and reflector boards choked the once-serene space. She was selling a line of fast-fashion clothes she claimed were "exclusive designer collaborations." Every day from three in the afternoon until ten at night, her shrill, theatrical pitch echoed down the stairwell. "Guys! Car-Car personally picked out this jacket for me! You can't get this anywhere else on the internet!" I wore noise-canceling headphones downstairs, working doggedly on my main exhibition piece—a ten-foot oil painting. Carter hadn't come home or called in days, attempting to freeze me out in a childish silent war. On Friday afternoon, I needed my set of antique French mineral watercolors to complete the final glazing on my canvas. My father had bought those paints for me in Paris five years ago, right before he died. They were part of a limited, unrepeatable run of fifty sets worldwide, ground from rare lapis and botanical pigments. After he passed, those fifty small porcelain jars were the only tangible pieces of his support I had left. I kept them locked inside the archival cabinet on the second floor. I took off my headphones and walked upstairs. Starla’s stream had just wrapped, and her crew was packing away cords. Starla was sitting in a plush velvet chair, cradling a fluffy, snow-white Pomeranian in her lap. I walked past the tangled extension cords toward the cabinet. The moment my eyes hit the metal frame, the blood in my veins turned to ice. The lock on the archival cabinet had been violently pried open with a screwdriver. The digital temperature display was dead. Inside, the fifty neat porcelain jars were a war zone. Dozens had been knocked onto the hardwood floor, shattered into jagged shards. Deep, vibrant lapis-blue pigment was smeared across the floorboards like a pool of drying blue blood. Starla’s white Pomeranian was prancing happily through the mess, leaving a trail of bright blue paw prints all over the floor. A spray of blue dust was smeared across the hem of Starla’s white silk dress. "What did you do?" My voice didn't sound like my own. It was a low, terrifying shake. Starla turned her head, saw me, and let out a light, careless giggle. "Oh, hey, Nora! We were looking for an extra light stand earlier and accidentally bumped into the cabinet. The lock was so cheap, it just popped right open!" She stood up, holding her dog. "I saw those old little jars in there. They looked ancient and dusty anyway. Car-Car said everything in this building was fair game, so I used a few to stamp Snowflake’s paws with blue ink as a fun giveaway for my viewers!" To stamp a dog's paws. With the last gift my dead father gave me. I walked over and dropped to my knees. I picked up a broken piece of white porcelain stained with deep cobalt powder. A sharp, jagged edge slice through the skin of my thumb, and a bead of red blood welled up, mixing with the blue dust. "Do you have any idea what this is?" I asked, raising my eyes to look at her. "It’s paint, Nora. What else would it be?" She rolled her eyes, scoffing. "Don't look at me like that, it’s creepy. I’ll buy you a new pack on Amazon, okay? They’re like twenty bucks." I stood up. Without a single word of warning, I pulled back my left arm and delivered a roaring, open-handed slap across her face. The sharp crack echoed through the second floor like a gunshot. Starla’s head snapped to the side. She stumbled backward, dropping her dog, which squealed in terror. "Are you insane?!" she shrieked, clutching her bright red cheek in absolute disbelief. The entire production crew froze, terrified. "Buy me a new set?" I stepped toward her, my vision turning red. "That was a irreplaceable artifact! My father gave that to me before he died! Your pathetic life isn't worth a single jar of that pigment!" Starla’s eyes welled with tears, but instead of striking back, she took a deliberate, dramatic step backward—straight into a heavy lighting rig. The metal stand tipped over, crashing into a stack of wooden crates with a deafening rattle. At that exact second, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. "What the hell is going on here?!" Carter burst onto the floor. He was wearing a tailored suit, clearly fresh from a high-level corporate meeting. Starla saw him and threw herself into his arms like a victim escaping a murderer. "Car-Car!" she sobbed hysterically. "She hit me! I accidentally bumped her stuff and offered to pay for it, and she slapped me!" Carter wrapped his arm around her. When he saw the vivid red handprint blooming on her cheek, his face transformed into a mask of pure rage. He whirled on me. "Nora! What is wrong with you?!" I held up my bleeding hand, pointing at the shattered porcelain and ruined blue dust on the floor. "She destroyed my father’s final gift to me." Carter cast a quick, dismissive glance at the floor. "Over a couple of old jars of paint, you put your hands on her?!" "Old jars of paint?" I let out a terrible laugh. "Carter, my dad gave me those five years ago for my birthday! You were there when he handed them to me!" He flicked his gaze away, a split-second of guilt crossing his face before he hardened again. "It’s just material stuff! It’s an inanimate object! You can replace paint, but look at her face—her cheek is swollen! Apologize to her right now!" He let go of Starla and took a menacing step toward me, reaching out to grab my arm. I instinctively lunged backward to get away from him. My foot caught on a heavy metal cable on the floor, and my center of gravity failed. I crashed backward hard onto the hardwood. To break my fall, my instinct kicked in, and I slammed my right hand flat against the floor. My palm landed directly on top of a jagged, two-inch piece of broken porcelain sticking straight up out of the floorboards. A sharp, searing spike of agony exploded up my arm. I gasped, the air completely leaving my lungs as cold sweat instantly broke out across my forehead. Blood spurted from my palm, pooling into the dark blue pigment on the floor, swirling into a sickening, purplish-black sludge. Carter froze in his tracks. The hand he’d extended dropped halfway. "Nora..." His voice finally lost its anger, replaced by a sudden, sickening panic. "Car-Car, don't let her fool you," Starla whimpered from behind him, clutching her head. "She’s just acting dramatic because she got caught hitting me... Oh, my head hurts so bad, I think I have a concussion from the lamp falling..." I ignored them both. Biting my lip until I tasted blood, I pulled my right hand up off the floor. A thick, two-centimeter shard of porcelain was buried deep into the meat of my hand, right below the joint of my thumb. For a painter, that location was a death sentence. Carter took a step toward me to help me up. "Nora, let me see—" "Don't touch me." I looked up at him. There was no anger left in my eyes. No hurt. No tears. Just a vast, terrifying void. In that quiet, terrible second, I heard the final string inside my heart snap cleanly in two. "Carter," I said, my voice eerily calm as I held up my drenched, bleeding hand. "Five years ago, when my father was buried, you weren't there. And today, you helped someone destroy the last piece of him I had left." I watched the color drain completely from his face. "We’re done," I said. I pulled myself up off the floor, turned around, and walked down the stairs, leaving a trail of crimson drops behind me. Annie screamed when she saw me come down to the lobby. "Nora! Oh my god, your hand!" "Call an ambulance," I said softly, sitting down on the showroom sofa. Upstairs, I heard Carter’s heavy footsteps start down the stairwell to follow me. But halfway down, Starla’s shrill voice cried out above him: "Car-Car! I’m dizzy! I’m going to pass out!" The footsteps stopped. Then, they turned around and hurried back up. I closed my eyes and listened to the distant, wailing siren of the approaching ambulance. The scale hadn't just tipped. It had crashed through the floor. 4 Eight stitches. Nerve damage. The trauma surgeon at Northwestern Memorial told me I wouldn't be able to hold a paintbrush for extended periods for at least six months—maybe longer, depending on physical therapy. I sat on a cold plastic bench in the hospital corridor for two hours after being discharged. I didn't cry. A strange, serene clarity took over. It felt like living through a long, agonizing illness, only to finally receive the terminal diagnosis: no more guessing, no more hoping, no more lying to myself. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was a text from Annie. Nora, Carter brought a locksmith to Astra Gallery. He’s changing the locks on the main entrance right now. I texted back a single word: Good. The next afternoon, Carter cornered me in the lobby of my temporary apartment building. He looked terrible. His stubble was dark, his eyes bloodshot, his designer suit rumpled. When he saw the thick, pristine white bandages swaddling my right hand and wrist, his gaze flicked away in guilty discomfort. "Your hand..." he rasped. "What did the surgeon say?" "I’m not dying," I said, stepping sideways to walk past him. He lunged forward, blocking my path, and thrust a thick manila envelope into my space. "What’s this?" "The deed transfer for Astra Gallery," he said, adopting an air of magnanimous, long-suffering generosity. "If you sign the acknowledgment, I’ll transfer my fifty percent equity over to your name entirely. It will be 100% yours. I’ve already forced Starla’s crew to vacate the second floor." I looked at the envelope, my hands remaining at my sides. "What’s the catch?" Carter took a deep breath. "There’s an industry networking dinner tonight at the Drake Hotel. Everyone in our social and investor circle is going to be there. Starla will be there too." He paused, testing the waters. "I need you to come, sit down, and offer her a public apology for slapping her. Once we clear the air about yesterday, we can put all of this behind us." I stared at him, genuinely marveling at the creature before me. He was offering me something that was already rightfully mine, in exchange for me bowing my head to the woman who destroyed my father’s memory. In his mind, my dignity—and my father’s memory—could be bought off with a real estate transfer. "Fine," I said, a slow smile touching my lips. "I’ll go." Carter let out a massive sigh of relief, shoving the envelope into my coat pocket. "I knew you were a reasonable woman, Nora. I’ll send a car for you at seven." "Don't bother. I’ll get there myself." "Great. Dress nicely." He walked toward his car with a light, triumphant bounce in his step. At eight o'clock sharp, I pushed open the double doors of the private dining room at the Drake Hotel. Around a long, mahogany table sat a dozen of Carter’s wealthiest business associates and mutual acquaintances. Starla was seated right next to Carter, wearing a gorgeous cream-colored satin cocktail dress. When she saw me walk in, she shrank back slightly, playing the fragile victim. "Nora! Over here," Carter called out, gesturing to the empty chair directly beside Starla. I walked over and sat down. My bandaged right hand rested flat on the white tablecloth. Nobody asked what happened to my hand. Instead, the women at the table were busy fawning over a delicate diamond tennis necklace glittering around Starla’s neck. "Car-Car gave it to me," Starla chirped modestly, casting a coy glance at my husband. "He insisted I needed a pick-me-up after... recent events." Carter smiled, placing a piece of seared salmon onto her plate. "You deserve nice things, Starla." After two rounds of drinks, the room reached a warm, cheerful hum. Carter tapped his fork against his crystal glass, drawing everyone’s attention. He cast a heavy, meaningful glare in my direction. "Nora," he prompted smoothly. "I believe you had something you wanted to say to Starla?" I stood up. Using my left hand, I picked up a full glass of Cabernet Sauvignon from the table. Every eye in the room turned to me. Starla tilted her chin up slightly, a smug, triumphant glimmer flashing in her eyes as she prepared to accept my public humiliation. "Regarding what happened yesterday, I was indeed out of line," I said, looking straight into Starla’s eyes. "I didn't realize that priceless artifacts mean nothing to someone who equates art with twenty-dollar Amazon knockoffs. And I shouldn't have expected a girl who lacks basic human boundaries to understand the concept of respect." Starla’s smug smile instantly disintegrated. Carter’s face turned bright red. "Nora! Watch your mouth!" "I am watching it," I said calmly. I took two steps around the table until I was standing directly over Starla. "This toast is for you." Starla looked up, bewildered. "Nora, you don't have to be so mean—" Before she could finish her sentence, I flicked my wrist. A full glass of deep red wine splashed violently across Starla’s face. The dark liquid dripped from her nose, her false eyelashes, and her styled hair, drenching her cream satin dress in a massive, ugly purple stain. The private room went dead silent. "What the fuck are you doing?!" Carter roared, leaping out of his chair and shoving me back violently. I stumbled back against a waiter’s station, steadying myself with my left elbow. I set the empty wine glass onto a tray with a crisp, echoing clink. "I came to deliver an apology," I said, looking at him coldly. "Just... on my own terms." "You’re fucking insane, Nora!" Carter yelled, grabbing a cloth napkin to furiously wipe the wine from Starla’s crying face. "I gave you an olive branch! I gave you a way out of this! You just threw everything away!" "Threw everything away?" I pulled the deed envelope from my coat and slapped it onto the center of the table. "I don't want your pathetic venue. Keep it." I turned on my heel and walked out of the private room. "Nora! If you walk out that door tonight, don't you ever think about coming back!" Carter’s voice screamed behind me, breaking in rage. I didn't turn around. I pushed open the hotel doors and stepped out into the crisp, cold night air. I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 9:30 p.m. My red-eye flight to London departed from O'Hare at 11:45 p.m. At the international terminal, I checked my single bag. Ten minutes before boarding, my phone vibrated. Carter’s caller ID flashed on the screen: Husband. I stared at the blinking letters for three seconds, then calmly tapped Block This Caller. I opened my settings, wiped his contact from my phone, and unlinked our shared accounts. "Boarding pass, please, ma'am," the gate agent smiled. I handed her the slip of paper. "Thank you, Ms. Ellis. Have a wonderful flight to Heathrow." I walked down the jetway without looking back once. Game over, Carter. Now it’s your turn to pay.