Mark put down his book. “You know your husband,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.
That afternoon, Brenda came in for my injections. She looked at me, then at Mark, then back at me with a conspiratorial whisper. “Jessica, do you actually know who is in the bed next to you?”
“Mr. Grant,” I said.
“That’s Mark Grant,” Brenda hissed. “The one with the commercial real estate empire in seven states. The tech founder from Austin. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the region. He could be in a suite in New York, but he’s here because Dr. Herrera is the only one he trusts.”
“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.”
