The local news anchor had a voice like lukewarm tea. Bland, comforting, and utterly soul-crushing.
I sat on Martha's sofa for forty-eight hours, the television a flickering blue ghost in the corner of the room. I watched the "Social" segment of the tri-county broadcast until the images burned into my retinas.
There was Silas, standing on his porch with Elena. He wasn't smiling, but he was standing there. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen was simple: Mercer Estate Heir Confirmed: A New Chapter for the Ridge.
The town loved it. The local legend, the mountain man who had remained a bachelor for so long, was finally settling down. He was doing the "right" thing. He was being the man everyone expected him to be.
I looked at the screen and felt... nothing. Just a vast, cold emptiness where my heart used to be.
Every time the phone rang, I didn't answer. I knew it was him. I knew he wanted to explain how he could love me and still raise a child with her. I knew he wanted to tell me that he was trapped by his own honor. But I didn't want to hear about his honor anymore. Honor was just a fancy word for the walls he'd built around himself.
On the third morning, I pulled out my laptop.
My bank account was a joke. It was the remains of my tips from the diner and the small "severance" check Martha had insisted on giving me. It wasn't enough to start a life. It wasn't enough to buy a house or a car or a future.
But it was exactly enough for a coach seat on a red-eye to Heathrow.
I didn't think. Thinking was for people who had something to lose. I clicked 'Purchase,' watched the confirmation screen buffer, and felt a strange sense of relief when the digital ticket landed in my inbox.
I went to the bedroom and pulled my old, battered suitcase out from under the bed.
I didn't touch the expensive silk robe Julian had left me. I didn't want his charity. Not yet. I started folding my life into the suitcase.
I packed the thrift-store flannels that smelled like the diner's grease trap. I packed the faded jeans with the holes in the knees from when I'd fallen on the ridge. I packed the heavy wool sweaters that had seen me through the blizzard.
Everything I owned was worn, frayed at the edges, and smelled like a town I was never coming back to. It was the wardrobe of a girl who had tried to play house in the mountains and failed. It was the clothing of a woman who was done being a supporting character in Silas Mercer's story.
I zipped the suitcase shut. The sound of the plastic teeth locking together felt final.
I looked around the room, at the floral wallpaper, the stack of Martha's magazines, the quiet safety of it all. It was a good life. It was a peaceful life. And it was killing me.
I picked up the suitcase. It was light. I had lived twenty years, and I could carry everything I was in one hand.
I didn't leave a note for Silas. He had his heir. He had his legacy. He had his peace he talked about for so long.
I walked out of the house, the cold morning air hitting my face like a slap. I didn't look toward the ridge. I didn't look at the diner. I walked toward the bus stop that would take me to the airport, my boots crunching on the gravel.
I was going to London. I was going to find the man who had seen the worst in me and called it magnificent. I didn't know if he'd be happy to see me. I didn't know if he was still the shark or if he'd turned into something else.
But I knew one thing as I felt the weight of the passport in my pocket.
The girl who worked for tips was gone. The woman who waited for a mountain to move was gone. And whatever was waiting for me on the other side of the Atlantic, it was going to have to deal with me on my own terms.