Chapter 3 - The Ring on the Table
That afternoon, after leaving Sarah’s office, my Uber dropped me off in front of our Lincoln Park brownstone. The neighborhood looked pristine and picturesque under the gray autumn sky, with fallen orange leaves lining the wrought-iron fence.
I let myself in using my house key.
The interior was immaculate—too immaculate. It smelled faintly of expensive cedarwood and high-end cleaning products, a sterile environment maintained by a bi-weekly housekeeping service. Marcus had always hated clutter. He wanted his home to reflect the same sterile perfection as his surgical suites.
I walked upstairs to our master bedroom, moving like a ghost through the quiet halls. My side of the walk-in closet was already half-empty, but I systematically gathered the rest of my clothes, my university degrees, my professional certification plaques, and my personal books, packing them tightly into two large suitcases.
I didn't take anything that belonged to Marcus. I didn't take the expensive art pieces we had bought together, nor the high-end espresso machine he loved.
When my packing was finished, I walked back down to the grand foyer.
My heart gave a brief, painful flutter as I reached down to my left ring finger. I twisted the heavy platinum band encrusted with a two-carat diamond—a ring Marcus had personally designed and slipped onto my finger at our altar five years ago, swearing vows in front of God and our families that he would honor and protect me in sickness and in health.
In sickness and in health.
The irony was so sharp it tasted like copper in my mouth.
I slid the ring off my finger. The skin underneath was slightly paler than the rest of my hand.
I walked into the formal dining room, where a polished mahogany table sat beneath a modern chandelier. Opening my purse, I retrieved my official hospital discharge summary document—the paperwork detailing my thirty-day ordeal, my surgical incision notes, and my post-operative dietary restrictions.
I placed the discharge summary flat in the center of the table.
And right on top of the crisp white paper, I set my wedding ring.
It sat there, gleaming coldly under the dining room lights, waiting for him to find it when he came home from his prestigious hospital meetings.
May you like
Without looking back, I wheeled my suitcases out the front door, locked it behind me for the very last time, and climbed into the waiting Uber. I changed my cell phone number during the ride, instructing Sarah’s office to handle all future communications.
I was officially untethered.
