Chapter 4
Sophie walked her three blocks to a small worn building and paid cash at the desk. The clerk barely glanced up and asked nothing. The room was tiny and clean — a bed, a chair, a lamp, a window with a fire escape outside it.
Elena locked the door, wedged the chair under the handle, and lay down on top of the covers in the borrowed jacket.
She didn’t cry. She was too empty for tears. There was just the crushing weight of it — I did it, I actually left — and underneath that, already gathering like weather, the knowledge that tomorrow the war would begin.
She fell asleep with Dominic’s card pressed against her heart.
The pounding on the door came with the sunrise.
Elena jerked awake, disoriented, the room gray and strange. The knocking didn’t stop. It was aggressive, official, three knuckles in a rhythm that meant we’re not going away.
“Elena Martinez, Chicago PD. We need to verify your well-being.”
Her heart stopped, then restarted at double speed.
Dominic had called it.
She sat on the edge of the bed with her hands shaking and listened to herself breathe. The card. She grabbed it and dialed the hotel phone, and he answered on the first ring.
“Elena.”
“There are police outside.”
“Don’t open the door.”
“I don’t know what to —”
“Listen to me. Tell them you’re contacting your attorney and that you’ll come to the station with legal representation within the hour.”
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“You do now. Rebecca Ortiz. Best divorce lawyer in Illinois. She’s fifteen minutes away.” A beat. “Room number 214.”
“How did you —”
“Because I started making calls the second I left that café last night. Give me some credit, Elena. I don’t make offers I can’t back up.”
Something in his voice — the flat, absolute certainty of it — made her breathe easier.
“What do I do?”
“Exactly what I said. Tell them you’re contacting your attorney. Don’t let them in. Don’t explain. Don’t apologize.” His voice was calm and level. “You are not the one who did something wrong. Say it back to me.”
“I’m not the one who did something wrong.”
“Again. Like you mean it.”
“I’m not the one who did something wrong.”
“Good. Rebecca will be there in twelve minutes. Stay calm.”
The line went dead.
Elena walked back to the door. The knocking had stopped; there was a low murmur of voices on the other side. She stood close enough to smell the paint and said, through the wood, in a voice that surprised her:
“I’m contacting my attorney. I’ll come to the station with legal representation within the hour.”
Silence. Then, through the door: “Ma’am, your husband just wants to make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m safer now than I’ve been in twelve years.” Her hand was flat on the door. “Tell him that.”
Twelve minutes later, a different knock — controlled, professional, two quick raps.
“Mrs. Martinez. Rebecca Ortiz. Dominic sent me.”
Elena opened the door.
The woman on the other side was in her fifties, silver hair pulled back tight, in a sharp gray suit, with eyes that catalogued Elena top to bottom in about two seconds and gave nothing away.
“The police are downstairs,” Rebecca said. “So is your husband.”
Elena’s hand went to the doorframe.
“We’re going down together. You’re going to verify that you’re safe and that you left voluntarily. You will not elaborate. You will not explain. You will not apologize.” She paused. “Am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.” Rebecca lifted a garment bag she’d been holding at her side. “Also, I brought you real clothes. You cannot face them looking like you slept in someone else’s jacket — it feeds his narrative.”
Twenty minutes later Elena came down the stairs in borrowed jeans and a sweater that fit well enough, her wet hair pulled back, her face bare. Two officers waited in the lobby. And so did Marcus.
He stood by the window with his hands clasped in front of him, perfectly groomed, in a fresh suit — he’d gone home and changed, she realized, he’d gone home and showered and dressed and come back. His expression was carefully constructed: relief, layered over concern, with a hint of hurt underneath, like a man who’d been up all night praying.
It was a beautiful performance. She had watched him rehearse it for twelve years, on other people.
The moment he saw her, he moved forward.
“Elena.” His voice cracked on her name. “Thank God. I’ve been out of my mind.”
Rebecca stepped between them like a blade sliding from a sheath.
“Mr. Martinez. I’m your wife’s attorney. She’s here to confirm she’s safe. Any further contact goes through me.”
Marcus’s mask cracked. Just for a second — Elena saw the rage underneath, red and raw — and then it was gone.
May you like
“Her attorney.” He smiled. “That’s interesting. We didn’t have any attorneys yesterday.”
“A lot changed yesterday,” Rebecca said. Her smile was razor-thin.
