The afternoon we were scheduled to sign off on the condo, Serena’s lifelong best friend, Cody, came up with what he called "The Ultimate Move-In Gauntlet." "We hide the front door keys somewhere in the neighborhood!" Cody had announced, gesturing with a half-empty beer bottle like an erratic game show host. "The groom has to track them down before he’s allowed through his own threshold. Fail, and you sleep on the welcome mat tonight!" I spent three hours searching. I combed through frosted hydrangea beds, crawled behind electrical transformers, and scraped my knuckles against brick foundations. Up on the fourth-floor terrace, they were popping champagne on Instagram Live. Their laughter drifted down into the freezing twilight, sharp and bright. Serena leaned over the railing, her diamond pendant catching the dusk. "Come on, Simon, work for it! It’s called a rite of passage! Build the romance!" It was nearly ten o’clock when I finally found the silver ring wedged behind the grease-caked alley dumpsters, buried in a clump of rotting cardboard and black sludge. My palms were blackened and reeking of sour compost when I rode the elevator up and unlocked the deadbolt. The three-bedroom condo was hollowed out. The custom Italian leather sectional I had waited two months for, the seventy-five-inch OLED screen, the hand-knotted wool rug, the stainless-steel appliances I had paid for upfront from my own personal savings—all of it was gone. Even the brass outlet plates had been unscrewed from the drywall. Cody stood by the sliding glass doors, his phone aimed squarely at my face. "Surprise, bro!" Cody crowed. "We loaded everything into a freight hauler and shipped it to Serena’s family cabin in the Appalachian foothills. Two thousand miles away! Now you two get a real, old-fashioned road-trip quest to hunt down your domestic bliss!" Serena drifted over, slipping her slender, manicured arm through mine. She didn't seem to notice the stench clinging to my jacket. "Think of it, Simon," she said, her voice lilting with airy condescension. "A cross-country adventure for our honeymoon. Retrieving our home piece by piece along the highway. Wouldn't that be fun?" I looked down at her. In that silent, blinding second, the rotting sludge caked beneath my fingernails felt infinitely cleaner than the woman standing next to me. I peeled her fingers off my coat sleeve, my voice dropping to a flatline that startled even myself. "You can take that road trip alone," I said. "The wedding is off." 1 Serena’s hand hung suspended in the empty air, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. Then her expression softened into that practiced, patronizing warmth she always used when she thought I was being difficult. She reached into her Saint Laurent clutch, pulled out a lavender-scented wet wipe, and reached for my fingers. "What kind of childish nonsense is this?" Her tone was hushed, soothing, the way one speaks to a toddler throwing a tantrum in a supermarket aisle. "There are four hundred people on the livestream, Simon. Stop sulking. Be sweet." I stepped out of reach. The grease had dried into the creases of my knuckles, reeking of rancid fryer oil and wet trash. It was an honest, wretched smell—infinitely more real than the Tom Ford perfume radiating from her collarbones. "I’m not joking, Serena." I stared into the cavernous living room. The space where my aniline leather couch was supposed to anchor the room; the corner where my fiddle-leaf fig was supposed to catch the morning sun. They had even taken down the brass track lighting. Cody leaned in close, pivoting his phone so the front-facing camera caught the glare of the bare overhead bulb and the grim set of my jaw. "Uh-oh, ladies and gentlemen, looks like the groom has zero chill," Cody said, smacking his spearmint gum into the microphone. "It’s just some furniture, Simon. We’re testing your emotional resilience. A marriage built on material goods is built on quicksand." "Kill the feed," I told him, looking him straight in the eyes. "Not a chance," Cody sneered, lifting the device higher. "Look at him, chat. This is modern chivalry for you. Make a little harmless fun, and he threatens to cancel the whole future." I shifted my gaze to Serena. "Tell him to turn it off." Serena let out an exhausted, long-suffering sigh. "Simon, Cody has a boyish streak. He was just trying to bring some energy to the night. It’s our closing day—why do you have to wear that miserable face?" A milestone. Digging through alley trash for three hours while my life’s savings were loaded onto an interstate flatbed to stroke her male best friend's ego. That was her idea of celebration. I didn't answer. I reached into my pocket, took out the key coated in dumpster grime, and set it down quietly on the sole remaining fixture: the radiator cover near the door. Then I turned toward the hallway. "Simon!" Serena called after me. Her voice retained that irritating, polished calm. "If you walk out right now, who’s going with me to the jeweler tomorrow to size the wedding bands?" I kept moving, stepped into the waiting elevator, and pressed the button for the lobby. As the brushed-metal doors slid shut, I heard Cody’s high-pitched snicker echo down the corridor: "Leave him be, Serena. Classic power play. Come on, I’ll buy you a dirty martini." Outside, the autumn wind bit through my sweater. I hailed a cab back to my rented studio. In the bathroom, I washed my hands three separate times, scrubbing with stiff bristles until the skin over my knuckles wept pink and raw, trying to purge the ghost of that dumpster stench. My phone screen flickered on the marble vanity. It was a text from Serena. An attached photo showed the leather banquette of an upscale speakeasy downtown; Cody was grinning over a coupe glass, flashing a peace sign. Her caption read: "Cody insisted I needed a drink after your scene. Crashing at his loft tonight so you have space to process your feelings. Sleep it off. I’ll swing by at three tomorrow so we can look at platinum bands." "Process my feelings." To her, my self-respect was merely an inconvenient mood swing that could be smoothed over by morning. Four years of dating, and this was her invariant playbook: Cody would cross a line, trample my boundaries, and Serena would pat my arm and dismiss it as "harmless mischief." The next afternoon, I didn't wait for her call. I took an Uber straight to the bespoke clothier on Newbury Street. A month ago, I had commissioned a three-piece charcoal tuxedo from imported Dormeuil wool for the ceremony. Today was supposed to be my final fitting. I pushed open the heavy oak door of the private styling salon, and the air went still. Standing before the three-way gilded mirror was Cody. He had squeezed himself into my handmade jacket. His bleached, disheveled fringe fell across his forehead as he tugged aggressively at the canvassed lapels. "What is this stiff crap?" Cody grumbled, shaking his shoulders. "It scratches like insulation." With an exaggerated groan, he flopped backward onto the velvet settee. The sharply pressed wool trousers bunched across his thighs, and his arm knocked against a side table. An artisan iced espresso wobbled and tipped, splashing a dark, oily brown stain straight down the hand-stitched silk placket of the custom white tuxedo shirt. "Whoops," he said, not even looking down. Serena was perched on the adjacent armchair, casually thumbing through an issue of "Architectural Digest". She glanced at the spreading stain without so much as a blink. "Don't worry about it," she murmured. "The shop can just send it out for spot treatment." I stepped fully into the room. The master tailor followed behind me, wringing a measuring tape in his hands, his face pale with mortification. "Mr. Clark... this gentleman introduced himself as your best man. He insisted on trying it on to check the proportions..." Serena looked up. Seeing me, she flashed that radiant, placid smile. "Simon, there you are. Slept off the sulking, I hope?" She rose, stepping forward to smooth the collar of my overcoat. "Cody said he’d never worn Savile Row-grade wool before and wanted to see how the other half lived. You were late, so I told him to go ahead." I looked down at the ruined silk shirt. I had sketched the initial design myself, spent weeks emailing fabric mills, and endured three separate fittings to ensure every seam sat flush against my ribs. I hadn't even had the chance to wear it once. "Take it off," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Cody rolled his eyes, adjusting the cuffs. "Relax, bro. Honestly, the cut is completely boxy. I can barely expand my lungs. You paid twenty-six grand for this? You got taken for a ride, man." He stood up, tugging roughly at the horn buttons. The coffee stain seeped deeper into the weave. Serena walked over, resting an affectionate hand on Cody’s shoulder. "All right, go change out of it. Simon, since this one’s soiled, just pick another pattern from the archive. Put it on my tab." "Put it on her tab." For four years, her favorite trick was playing the generous benefactor with other people's dignity. "The suit is twenty-six thousand four hundred dollars," I said evenly. I pulled out my phone, pulled up the direct wire details, and held the screen inches from Cody’s nose. "You ruined it. You buy it." 2 The private salon fell deathly quiet. The tailor held his breath, subtly retreating toward the velvet curtains at the rear. Cody’s eyes rounded in cartoonish disbelief. "Are you out of your mind, Simon? You want me to pay twenty-six grand for a monkey suit?" He tapped his collarbone. "I’m an artist, man! I don't wear ties. I was doing you a favor by breaking the canvas in!" "You spilled the coffee," I said, keeping the glowing screen level with his chin. "Transfer the funds, or I file a police report for criminal mischief before we leave this room." The warmth on Serena’s face evaporated entirely. A sharp crease appeared between her groomed brows as she stepped between Cody and me, shielding him with her body. "Simon, this is getting pathetic," she snapped. Her tone was still low, but the velvet coating had stripped away, revealing cold irritation. "It was an accident. Cody makes four thousand a month freelancing. Where is he supposed to come up with twenty-six grand on the spot? We’re all friends here. You’re being vindictive." "Vindictive." My property was ruined, and asking for compensation was vindictive. He had hijacked my furniture in the middle of the night, and that was considered a charming joke. "If he can't pay," I said, meeting her eyes, "are you covering it?" "Fine," Serena said without missing a beat. She snapped open her purse, produced a sleek matte-black card, and handed it to the trembling tailor. "Run this. Cody can keep the suit to cut up for a photoshoot. Bring Mr. Clark the premium lookbook and let him choose whatever fabric costs the most." The tailor took the card like it was unexploded ordnance and scurried toward the register. Cody peered over Serena’s shoulder, sticking his tongue out at me in a childish sneer. "Look at that boss energy. Simon, you ought to be thanking me. If I hadn't spilled that cold brew, you wouldn't be getting an upgrade." I didn't answer him. My phone vibrated in my palm. Two minutes later, an automated alert popped onto the screen: "Transaction approved: $26,400.00 at Henry Poole Bespoke." The black card was linked to our joint pre-wedding escrow account—an account where, precisely forty-eight hours earlier, I had deposited seventy-five thousand dollars of my personal savings to cover vendor deposits. She had just spent my money to settle her best friend's damage. I slipped the phone back into my overcoat and looked at Serena. "Don't bother with the lookbook." "And what’s that supposed to mean?" Serena rubbed her temples, letting out a breath of pure exasperation. "The money’s paid. He’s taking the jacket off. Simon, a wedding requires maturity. You cannot keep throwing these childish tantrums over every trivial bump in the road." "The only trivial thing here is your sense of reality," I said, stepping past her shoulder. "Enjoy the suit, Cody." I pushed open the heavy oak door and left. I didn't head back to my apartment. I caught a cab down to the financial district, taking the express elevator up to the thirty-fourth floor of a glass tower. The senior partner of the firm was Bridget Walsh, an old moot court mentor from my law school days. I sat in her corner office, watching the fog roll across the harbor, and slid the printed statements from the joint account across her mahogany desk. "Run the forensic ledger for me," I said. "Every cent I’ve transferred into this shared repository over the last four years." Bridget adjusted her tortoiseshell glasses, scanning the printouts with practiced speed. "I thought you were walking down the aisle next month. What prompted the audit?" "The wedding is dead." Bridget didn't offer empty platitudes; she simply picked up a highlighter. Within ten minutes, she tapped a figure on the ledger. "A total of one hundred and ten thousand dollars of uncommingled personal deposits from your private checking. The two most glaring outflows occurred within the last forty-eight hours: fifty-two thousand for residential furnishings and appliances on Tuesday, and twenty-six thousand four hundred cleared twenty minutes ago." I leaned forward. "The fifty-two thousand dollars’ worth of home goods was loaded onto an unmanifested interstate carrier last night by Serena Locke and Cody without my consent or signature. Can we file for grand larceny?" Bridget arched an eyebrow. "You haven't registered the marriage certificate yet, correct?" "No." "If the capital originated solely from your premarital assets and they physically converted the property without authorization, that easily clears the threshold for third-degree grand larceny under state statute. It’s a felony. However, we need incontrovertible proof of intent." "I have the footage." I pulled a thumb drive from my pocket. Last night, before scrubbing the grime from my skin, I had screen-recorded all two hours and fourteen minutes of Cody’s public livestream. The audio was crystal-clear: him laughing as he pried open the master bedroom drawers, him directing the movers, him bragging about shipping everything south to teach me "a lesson in humility." "Brilliant," Bridget murmured, a sharp, shark-like smile touching her lips. "You always had good instincts, Simon. But are you prepared for the fallout? Once I file these notices, there’s no walking it back. You will detonate her entire social sphere." I looked out at the gridlocked traffic below. Four years. Four years of swallowing my voice so she wouldn't look bad in front of her friends. Whenever Cody called at two in the morning claiming his car had broken down, Serena would abandon me—even the night I had a 103-degree fever from the flu—to go sit with him at a twenty-four-hour diner. When Cody admired my grandfather’s vintage Omega Seamaster, Serena had unclasped it from my wrist while I was asleep and gifted it to him, telling me the next day: "He grew up without nice things, Simon. Have some grace." I was done having grace. "Draft two sets of documents," I told Bridget. "First, an emergency petition for asset liquidation and freeze: I want every dime of my one hundred and ten thousand repaid with statutory interest. Second, an evidentiary brief for the district attorney regarding Cody. I want him in handcuffs." It was past eight when I left the firm. As I reached the street, my phone buzzed. It was Serena. I tapped the screen. "Yes?" "Simon, where on earth have you been?" Her tone was sickeningly gentle, though a low hum of chatter and bass rattled in the background. "Cody feels terrible about earlier. He insisted on throwing an impromptu housewarming at our new place to make amends. I ordered from that bistro you love. Hurry over." A peace offering. In the concrete shell they had stripped bare. "I’ll be there in twenty minutes," I said, and flagged a cab. I wanted to see the wreckage with my own eyes. 3 The moment I pushed the condo door open, the stench hit me: stale vape smoke, cheap tequila, and the grease of fried takeout. The wide-plank oak floors, where my wool rug was supposed to cushion our footsteps, were littered with plastic folding tables and crushed aluminum cans. Seven or eight people I had never seen before—friends from Cody’s art-school circle—were gathered in a circle, shaking dice in red plastic cups. Cody was standing on a metal folding chair near the terrace doors, a dusty green bottle in his left hand, slopping dark red wine into disposable party cups. My stomach seized. I recognized the label instantly. It was a 1996 Château Margaux—a bottle I had spent two years hunting down, bought through an auction house in Bordeaux to celebrate our wedding night. It had been stored in the built-in sub-zero wine cellar. Now, he was splashing it out like discount boxed sangria. "The man of the hour!" Cody yelled, hopping down from the chair as he spotted me. "Clear a path, people! Give the groom some elbow room!" Nobody moved. A couple of hipsters glanced up with bored disinterest, flicked their dice, and went back to their game. Serena stepped out of the empty kitchen holding a paper plate heaped with cold takeout sliders. She was wearing an ivory silk blouse that cost more than most people's monthly rent, yet she moved through the trash-strewn room like a queen holding court among peasants. "Simon, sit down," she said, motioning toward a cheap plastic stool wedged into the corner. "Cody rounded up his friends to bless the space with some creative energy. He said a new house needs good karma before the owners move in." I stood anchored to the threshold. "This is your idea of an apology?" "Come on, Simon, don't be stiff," Cody said, stepping into my personal space with two plastic cups sloshing with fifty-dollar mouthfuls of aged Bordeaux. "Serena uncorked it herself. She told me it was your pride and joy, so I figured, what better way to show there’s no hard feelings? A toast between brothers. We wipe the slate clean over the suit!" He shoved the plastic rim toward my mouth. The dark, ancient wine sloshed against the flimsy red wall, looking like murky gutter water. I didn't take it. My eyes drifted past his shoulder, toward the terrace slider. The glass door was cracked open three inches. The November wind was howling through the gap, freezing the floorboards. And there, huddled in the drafty corner against the concrete sill, was a matted ball of gray-and-white fur, shivering violently. It was Mochi, my three-year-old rescue Ragdoll. I had raised him from a bottle-fed kitten. He was terrified of loud noises and drafts; yesterday morning, I had explicitly handed his carrier to Serena, making her promise to drop him off at her parents’ heated home in the suburbs while we handled the move. "Why is my cat out there?" I asked. The ambient warmth dropped out of the room. Serena followed my gaze, her reply airy and offhanded. "Oh. Cody’s severely allergic to longhair breeds. The cat kept darting under people’s feet and clawed Cody’s ankle when he tried to move him, so we put him on the terrace." "It is thirty-five degrees outside," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "He doesn't have an undercoat." I shoved past Cody and slid the terrace door wide. Hearing my footsteps, Mochi lifted his head with agonizing slowness, letting out a faint, reedy wheeze that barely sounded like a mew. His fur was soaked through. The exterior hose spigot was still dripping onto the pavers, and a plastic bucket nearby was filled with soapy foam. Someone had hosed down a terrified, shivering indoor cat with freezing tap water, then locked the door and left him to slowly freeze on bare concrete for hours. My hands shook with a rage so pure it turned cold. I ripped off my cashmere overcoat, dropped to my knees, and wrapped Mochi inside the dry wool. His little nose was pale, his body trembling so hard his teeth clicked. "Who did this?" I stood up, turning to face the room. Cody rolled his eyes, taking a swig from his plastic cup. "He was shedding all over my denim jacket, dude. One of the guys took a squirt bottle to teach him some manners. How were we supposed to know he was so fragile?" He took a step toward me, reaching out a hand toward the bundle in my arms. "It’s just an alley cat, Simon. Don't look like you want to murder someone—" "Don't touch him!" The crack of my palm striking Cody’s wrist echoed like a gunshot through the room. Cody stumbled back into the folding table, rattling the dice. He cradled his reddened arm, his eyes instantly brimming with theatrical tears. "Serena... he just hit me..." Serena dropped the paper plate of sliders onto the floor and closed the distance between us in three long strides. "Simon Clark, have you lost your mind?" She shoved herself in front of Cody, her face contorted in furious reproach. "Cody’s already wheezing from his allergies, and you lay hands on him? Over an animal? A cat spent an hour getting some fresh air, and you throw an absolute fit in front of all these people?" "An absolute fit." I cradled Mochi against my chest, feeling the terrifyingly rapid flutter of his tiny heart against my ribs. I looked at Serena—at the woman I had spent four years protecting, indulging, and planning a life around. Her eyes held zero empathy for the dying creature in my arms. They held only fierce, protective panic for the grown man hiding behind her back. "Serena," I said softly. "I paid the two-hundred-thousand-dollar down payment on this property," I continued, each syllable landing like iron on a marble floor. "The mortgage is registered exclusively under my Social Security number. My furniture was stolen. My vintage wine was looted. And you let your friends waterboard my cat in near-freezing temperatures." She blinked, startled by the clinical precision of the inventory. She leaned in, dropping her voice to an urgent hiss. "We can settle this after everyone leaves. Can you please show some decency and protect my reputation?" "You don't have a reputation left to protect." I tucked Mochi securely inside the wool fold and swept my eyes across the room. "You have ten minutes to clear out this trash," I told the crowd. "Anyone still inside when the clock runs out will be arrested for felony trespassing and breaking and entering." The room went dead. A few of the guests began nervously backing toward the door. Cody grabbed Serena’s sleeve, his voice cracking into a theatrical sob. "Serena, I told you your fiancé hates my guts. Forget it, let's just go. Don't let him treat us like dogs." Serena took a sharp breath, her jaw clenching until the tendons in her neck stood out. "Fine, Simon! You want to ruin everything over your wounded pride? Have fun sleeping in an empty tomb!" She snatched her leather jacket off the folding chair, grabbed Cody’s hand, and stormed toward the exit. "Come on, Cody. Let's go somewhere civilized." The heavy fire door slammed behind them, rattling the frame. The room returned to silence. I didn't shed a tear. Disillusionment, when dragged out over four long years, leaves no room for grief; it leaves only numbness. I stroked Mochi’s wet ears, pulled out my phone, and called the broker who had handled the initial purchase. "Brian," I said into the receiver. "The downtown loft. Put it on the MLS first thing tomorrow morning. Cash-only, as-is. Price it fifty thousand below comps. I want it gone by the end of the week." 4 Mochi spent the night in an oxygen incubator at the veterinary ICU. Acute hypothermia had precipitated pulmonary edema. Twice before dawn, the lead surgeon stepped into the fluorescent-lit waiting room to have me sign critical resuscitation waivers. I sat on the hard metal bench, watching the digital clock on the wall tick from three in the morning to nine. At nine-fifteen, the technician brought me back. Mochi’s breathing had finally steadied under the plastic hood. I pressed my palm flat against the clear partition, letting him feel the heat of my skin. My phone buzzed against my thigh. It was an iMessage from Serena. No inquiry about whether Mochi had survived the night. No acknowledgment of the police warning. Just a PDF attachment: "Locke_Clark_Final_Rehearsal_Gala_Itinerary.pdf". "Eight o'clock tonight. Penthouse Ballroom at the InterContinental. My mother’s sixtieth jubilee and our rehearsal dinner are being hosted together. Do not be late. Dress like a gentleman, and wipe that permanent sneer off your face before you greet my mother." I stared at the screen, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, a short, humorless laugh slipped past my lips. "Sneer." Last year, for Mrs. Locke’s birthday, I had emptied my quarterly bonus to purchase an authenticated Art Deco platinum brooch from an estate sale. Her mother had unwrapped the velvet box, squinted at the diamonds, and muttered that the clarity looked pedestrian before tossing it into a drawer full of junk mail. When I had voiced my hurt in the car ride home, Serena had said: "My mother comes from high society, Simon. She tells the truth. Don't be so thin-skinned." I wouldn't be thin-skinned tonight. I typed one word back: "Understood." At three in the afternoon, I returned to my bachelor apartment. I showered, shaved with a straight razor, and styled my hair with immaculate care. From the cedar closet, I took out my finest black three-piece suit—a sharp, peaked-lapel silhouette that carried an air of absolute finality. Then, I slipped three items into a heavy black linen envelope: The notarized asset liquidation petition Bridget had prepared; the executed, counter-signed listing agreement for the condo fire-sale; and the platinum engagement ring I had reclaimed from the jeweler's vault. At seven-thirty sharp, I stepped out of an Uber at the InterContinental. The ballroom was dripping in crystal chandeliers and white calla lilies; three-quarters of the Locke family tree were already circulating with flutes of Veuve Clicquot. Sitting directly at the center of the head table was Cody. He had donned an eye-searing white peak-lapel tuxedo, sporting an oversized red gardenia pinned to his chest. He was leaning over Mrs. Locke, whispering something that had the matriarch throwing her head back in high-pitched delight. To an outsider, Cody looked far more like the groom than I ever had. Serena, clad in an emerald-green Vera Wang evening gown, spotted me across the marble floor. She glided over, her eyes immediately raking down my lapels. "Black?" she murmured, her lips tightening. "Simon, it’s my mother’s diamond jubilee. You look like you’re attending an execution." "It suits the occasion," I said evenly. Her eyes narrowed slightly, detecting a subtle shift in the air she couldn't quite diagnose, but the arrival of more guests cut her short. "Whatever. Just make sure when the pastry chef brings out the cake, you’re the one who hands Mother the first slice. Cody brought something truly remarkable from his collection—don't let him outshine you completely." "I'm sure he did," I replied, taking my seat at the end of the table. At eight o'clock, the lights dimmed. Mrs. Locke stepped onto the small velvet-draped dais to generous applause. Cody, beaming like a triumphant debutante, leaped up to take the wireless microphone from the master of ceremonies. "Mrs. Locke," Cody projected into the room, his voice dripping with syrupy theatricality. "For your milestone, I wanted to offer something that couldn't simply be bought off a shelf. Something with soul." He produced a burled-walnut case from behind the podium and popped the brass latch. The projection screens mounted on either side of the stage zoomed in. My chest went completely cold. The blood drained from my face so violently my vision tunneled into a pinpoint of white noise. Resting inside the velvet was an antique gold pocket watch. The original hand-chiseled casing had been filed down with crude tools. A tacky, gold-plated horseshoe had been welded directly over the crystal face, and the antique fob chain had been replaced by an obscene string of multi-colored plastic beads. It was my mother’s watch. The watch she had placed in my eleven-year-old hands as she lay dying in hospice care. The only tangible piece of her I had left in this world. It had lived inside a velvet pouch in the bottom, double-locked drawer of my home office desk. "The metal was tarnished and old," Cody announced proudly, hoisting the mangled heirloom like a trophy. "I figured keeping it in a drawer was an insult, so I took it down to an auto shop down on the docks. We drilled a hole through the hinge, soldered on some luck, and turned it into an exclusive rearview-mirror charm for your new Mercedes!" A smattering of polite, confused applause rose from the tables. I stared at the scarred metal on the fifty-inch screen. The deep gouges from the mechanic's drill. The clumsy solder marks. They looked like fresh burns across my own skin. Beside me, Serena nudged my elbow with a manicured hand. "See how creative he is?" she whispered, her eyes shining with self-satisfaction. "Your mother’s old watch was just gathering dust anyway. Now it serves a purpose. You aren't going to make another scene about this, are you?" I slowly turned my head to look at her. Her expression was entirely untroubled. She genuinely believed that destroying the last physical memory of my dead mother was an acceptable price to pay for Cody’s validation. "No," I heard myself say. My voice was eerily smooth, devoid of any vibration. "I’m not angry at all. I think the modification is very telling." Serena exhaled a long breath of relief, patting the back of my hand. "Good. That’s growth, Simon. We’re going to be family; there’s no room for keeping score." On the stage, Cody stepped down to drape the vulgar bead-chain around Mrs. Locke’s neck. The older woman clapped her hands together, loud enough for the adjacent tables to hear. "Now that is what I call devotion! So much more tasteful than those cold, corporate trinkets certain other people think pass for generosity." The side-eyes from her cousins rippled down the table toward me. I stood up, adjusted the cuffs of my suit, and smoothed my lapels. "Excuse me," I murmured. "I need to use the restroom." Serena didn't even look up from her champagne. "Hurry back. The cake cutting is in five minutes." I didn't walk toward the restrooms. I took the service elevator straight down to the hotel lobby. At the concierge desk, I placed the black linen envelope on the polished marble counter. "Please deliver this to Table One in the penthouse ballroom in precisely ten minutes," I said, sliding a crisp hundred-dollar bill across the stone. "Directly into the hands of Ms. Serena Locke." "Right away, sir." I walked through the brass revolving doors into the crisp autumn night. Waiting at the curb was the cab I had scheduled an hour ago. The trunk was already open, my two leather weekender bags securely stowed inside. "Where to, boss?" the driver asked, clicking the meter. "South Station," I said, leaning back into the worn upholstery as the neon lights of the city began to blur past the glass. "I have an overnight sleeper train to catch."
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