I’m kneeling in front of the bottom half of my closet, sorting shoes into piles, when Antonio’s voice drifts in from the living room.
“You packed books in this one.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s what boxes are for.”
“It weighs as much as a body.”
I do not ask how he knows that.
“Lift with your legs,” I call back.
He mutters something in Italian under his breath, something that definitely isn’t flattering, and my smile grows.
The apartment feels different now. Not sad exactly.
Just… stripped bare.
Drawers emptied. Frames taken down. The life I built here folded into cardboard and tape.
I stand and reach for the dresses still hanging in the closet.
Work dresses first. The usual rotation of practical, forgettable pieces I wore to disappear into conference rooms and board meetings. Dresses designed to make people focus on my numbers instead of my body.
I’ll decide later whether to keep them.
Then my fingers still.
Black.
Simple. Elegant. Dangerous.
The dress.
The one I wore on that first date with Antonio.
For a second, I just stare at it.
A dark line against the pale wall of the closet.
And then I remember the way he looked at me that night.
The way his eyes darkened.
The way I knew, instantly, that whatever existed between us had already gone too far.
Heat curls low in my stomach.
I’d been furious with him then. Convinced he’d slept with me only to secure the deal with Northstar.
So I bought the dress to torture him.
And maybe because some reckless, traitorous part of me wanted exactly that.
Wanted him looking at me.
Touching me.
Taking it off me.