The Disappearance
That night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The anger burned quietly, controlled. Rage was chaotic — I needed precision. I knew what had to be done: not a fight, not a confrontation, but something sharper, cleaner — a cut so quiet they wouldn’t notice they were bleeding until it was far too late.
So I disappeared.
No arguments, no explanations — just absence. I changed my number, moved across the city, blocked them on everything. My paychecks went to a new bank. My lawyer helped restructure my accounts, sealing off every trace of my life from theirs.
At work, I stayed late, built alliances, and invested quietly. They thought I was sulking. I was building. Two months later, Emma’s deal on the apartment collapsed. She called me fifteen times in one day. “Where are you? You owe me! Don’t you care about family?” I didn’t answer.
