Forty-Eight Hours Until I Disappear From His Life Chapter 04

Forty-Eight Hours Until I Disappear From His Life Chapter 04

Before boarding, I arranged for the boxes I’d packed to be delivered to the private club where Ethan was.

Half an hour later, someone posted an unboxing video in the group chat.

The scarf, stuffed animal, keychain, and a few cards Ethan had once written me were all inside.

At the bottom was an itemized statement.

For three years, I’d kept track of every meal, trip, and shared housing expense Ethan had paid on my behalf.

After subtracting my share, the remaining balance was exactly $15,760.

I transferred every cent into his account.

In the video, someone picked up the statement and laughed so hard he slapped his thigh.

“What’s this, an invoice for her services?”

“Only fifteen grand for three years? She must think she got robbed.”

“No wonder she’s canceling the wedding and moving out. She’s trying to make Ethan raise the offer.”

Someone else pinched the old scarf between two fingers.

“She’s mailing back twenty-dollar junk now? What’s with the holier-than-thou act?”

“That’s what happens when you’ve never had anything nice. You start treating junk like proof of some grand romance.”

Sloane snatched the statement and scanned it.

“She made the numbers this exact on purpose. She’s making sure Ethan remembers she gave him three years.”

“Just wait. Next she’ll ask for a payout for the three years she ‘wasted.'”

Ethan sat on the couch, his expression growing darker by the second.

He stared at the things in the box, then asked out of nowhere,

“What if she really just wants to break up?”

Sloane laughed out loud.

“Ethan, don’t tell me you’re actually falling for this.”

“What does she even make in a month?”

“Without you, she has to pay rent, go to work, cram onto the subway, and date regular guys.”

“She’s used to the life you gave her. You really think she can go back?”

Someone beside her piled on.

“Whitmore, you’re way too emotionally attached to your charity case.”

“A woman like that won’t find another guy willing to take her on. She’ll come crawling back.”

“For all we know, she’s already outside the door waiting for you to say you forgive her.”

The video cut off abruptly.

I left every group chat Ethan and I shared and canceled the phone number I’d had for seven years.

Another boarding announcement sounded through the airport.

As I joined the line, Ethan’s assistant sent me a message.

[Ms. Bennett, Mr. Whitmore asked me to find out when you’re coming back.]

I didn’t reply.

The line moved slowly forward.

When it was my turn to scan my boarding pass, Daniel called.

“We’ve already notified the client.”

“Ethan Whitmore will probably hear soon that you’ve signed a three-year contract.”

“Are you sure about this?”

I looked down the jet bridge leading to the plane.

“I’m sure.”

“This time, I’m not turning back.”

After the call, I opened my message thread with Ethan.

For the past three years, most of the messages had come from me.

I asked when he’d be home, reminded him to take his medication, and told him where I’d put his clean clothes.

Out of the last few dozen messages, he’d replied with only two words.

Got it.

I sent my final messages.

[Ethan Whitmore, you were all right. I really am good at pretending.]

[I was sick of this a long time ago, but I still spent three years pretending I loved you.]

[The performance is over now.]

[The next time you test me with a car crash, drunken night, or disappearance, no one is going to come running back.]

Ethan called immediately.

I didn’t answer.

He kept calling, his name flashing across my screen over and over.

A flight attendant reminded me to switch my phone to airplane mode.

The screen finally went silent.

At the same time, Noah had already delivered my overseas assignment contract to the private club.

It was there in black and white: three years.

Sloane reached for it, but Ethan pressed his hand over the contract first.

He stared at my signature, and the look on his face slowly changed.

This time, I wasn’t pretending.

I was really gone.