The rain hit the glass of the penthouse.

Outside, the Chicago skyline was a blur of gray and yellow.

Daniel did not look up from his tablet.

The steak on my porcelain plate had gone cold.

A single candle flickered between us, casting long shadows across the white linen tablecloth.

“Daniel,” I said. “It is our fifth anniversary.”

He swiped his screen, his thumb making a soft clicking sound against the glass.

“I have a meeting with the board in the morning, Emily,” he said.

His voice was flat.

It was the same tone he used when he dismissed his assistants.

“You could have stayed present for one night,” I said.

“Your gallery shows do not pay the mortgage on this place,” he replied.

He did not look at me.

He reached for his wine glass and took a slow sip.

I looked down at the gold band on my left hand.

It felt heavy, like a shackle I had agreed to wear.

I slid it off my finger.

It made a sharp, metallic ring as it hit the hardwood floor.

Daniel did not flinch as the gold rolled under the mahogany sideboard.

I stood up and grabbed my trench coat from the chair.

He did not call after me.

The elevator ride down to the lobby was silent and fast.

The Chicago wind cut through my coat the moment I stepped outside.

I raised my hand and hailed a yellow cab on Michigan Avenue.

“Wabash and Adams,” I told the driver.

The tires hissed on the wet asphalt.

I stared out the window at the neon signs bleeding into the puddles.

My secret studio was on the fourth floor of an old brick building.

Daniel did not know the address.

I had bought it under my maiden name, Emily Carter, using the small inheritance from my grandmother.

It was the only place where I could breathe.

I paid the driver and stepped into the damp vestibule of the building.

The elevator here was old, enclosed in a black iron grate.

It groaned as it pulled me upward.

The hallway smelled of wet wool, old dust, and radiator steam.