Chapter 4

Emma’s POV

“I don’t want money. I don’t want a gallery.”

I planted both hands on his broad desk and leaned forward. “I want one thing. Issue a withdrawal statement on behalf of the Hayes Group. Revoke every authorization and take The Last Tide’s promotional film down from every platform. Now.”

Adrian’s expression darkened.

He leaned back and tapped the desk twice with his long fingers. The commanding presence of a man used to absolute authority filled the room. “Emma, don’t be childish. I just had Legal explain this to you. We’re in a critical stage of the securities review and the pre-IPO quiet period. Suspending a core project or triggering a copyright scandal now will bring regulatory inquiries. None of these projects can stop at this stage.”

“Can’t stop?” I laughed coldly. “Even if the project is built on my dead father?”

“It isn’t nearly as serious as you’re making it sound!” His brow furrowed, his impatience unmistakable. “It’s an ambient sound sample! Why do you insist on turning an ordinary commercial arrangement into a matter of betrayal and life or death? Once we ring the opening bell at the end of the year and the stock price stabilizes, I’ll have Vivian replace the audio. I promise you’ll get a satisfactory resolution.”

There it was again.

After the project. After the funding. After the company stabilized.

I stood motionless. Sunlight streamed through the enormous windows onto my pale hands, but I felt no warmth.

Memories flooded back.

In our first year of marriage, I was offered an eight-month visiting fellowship at the British Library’s sound archive. It was the opportunity I had dreamed of. But a week before I was due to leave, Adrian’s first startup project ran into a cash-flow crisis. He spent three days in the hospital with a high fever, holding my hand as he received IV fluids. “Emma, the company’s just getting started. There isn’t a single person around me I can trust. Once we get through this project, I promise I’ll go to London with you next year.”

My resolve crumbled. I canceled my ticket and turned down the fellowship. I stayed up late checking hundreds of local historical records for him and helped him find sponsors.

In our second year, I wanted to make an independent documentary about endangered fishing songs. I had already assembled a film crew. But Adrian said the company was in its Series B funding round and asked me to focus on my honorary role at the corporate charitable foundation instead. “Once the funding comes through, I’ll give you a hundred million. You can make whatever you want.”

In our third year, the house my mother had left me was marked for demolition in a development zone. I wanted to save the little loft out back where my father used to listen to shortwave radio. I was willing to pay to rebuild it exactly as it was somewhere else. But the property fell within phase two of the Hayes Bay City development.

Adrian had the loft bulldozed overnight. Afterward, he held me as I cried until I could barely move. “The construction crew misread the plans. Once phase two is finished, I’ll save you a penthouse duplex with the best ocean view. I won’t let you suffer like this again.”

Once. Twice. Three times.

For four years, because I loved him, because I cherished the bond we had shared since we were young, I kept giving ground. I thought marriage meant supporting each other. I thought my compromises would make him cherish me.

Only now did I see it clearly. In Adrian’s world, my dreams were scraps he could sacrifice at any time. His promises to make things right later meant nothing more than that I would always come last.

“There’s no need to wait until the end of the year.” I slowly straightened, the last ripple of emotion settling in my eyes. “Adrian, I don’t need your resolution anymore.”

I turned and left his office.

That afternoon, instead of going to the archive, I went to a law firm. I hired Michael Carter, one of the best attorneys in the field for both family law and intellectual property disputes.

At seven that evening, I returned to the hillside villa.

The house was quiet. Maggie, our housekeeper, was making dinner. She hurried out when she saw me. “Mrs. Hayes, your husband called. He has dinner with some investment bankers tonight and probably won’t be home until after eleven. He said to eat without him.”

“All right, Maggie. Why don’t you turn in early tonight?”

I went upstairs. Instead of entering the bedroom, I went to the dressing room and then to my little study at the end of the hall.

After four years, I had left surprisingly little of myself in this house. I packed my papers, restoration toolkit, and a few boxes of personal belongings into two large suitcases. I didn’t touch any of the couture gowns, Hermès bags, or matching sets of auction-house jewelry Adrian had bought me. I left them neatly in place.

At eleven thirty, I heard a car engine shut off in the driveway.

I lay in bed facing away from the door, my eyes closed.

His footsteps came upstairs, then continued toward the study.

When I left that afternoon, I had deliberately kept the desk lamp on. On the cleared desk, I had placed a document—a divorce settlement agreement. I had already signed it.

I heard pages turning. I knew he had seen it. Then came the sound of the document closing, followed by a soft thud as he tossed it into the pending tray at the corner of the desk.

After a while, he opened the bedroom door.

He stood beside the bed.

I kept my eyes shut and said nothing. I could feel his gaze on my back, on my thin shoulders.

A long time passed before he turned and went to wash up in the guest room next door.