I walked into our master bedroom.
On the center of the undisturbed white linen duvet, I arranged five items in a precise, geometric line:
My six-carat platinum wedding band.
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My master biometric access card to Hale Dynamics.
The heavy brass deadbolt keys to the front gates.
The framed black-and-white printout of our twelve-week sonogram.
And the one-hundred-and-eighty-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe chronometer he had gifted me on our tenth anniversary, engraved with the words: To Natalie—My Anchor.
Beneath the watch, I slipped a single sheet of heavy linen stationery:
“You always told the press that your time was worth ten thousand dollars a minute. I won't take another second of it.”
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I picked up my phone from the bathroom floor, initiated a factory hardware wipe, removed the micro-SIM card, and snapped the silicone chip in half with my thumb, dropping the plastic fragments into the nightstand drawer.
At 11:06 P.M., I walked down the grand mahogany staircase.
