dn' t text. I didn' t want to hear her voice. The papers would speak for me. They were simple, clean. I wasn' t asking for anything beyond what

battle. I expected her to call, to scream, to

ever

ent. She had signed every page. Her signature, usually a flamboyant, confident scrawl, was neat and p

. Just the cold, black ink of

have. It was a confirmation of my worth in her eyes: zero. I w

foot ceilings and views of the Pacific, felt like a museum of a life that wasn' t mine. Every piece of furniture, eve

, drinking cheap champagne out of the bottle and planning our future. It all felt like a movie I' d watched about someone else' s life. The love I t

t just the loss of her, but the loss of the man I used to be-the trus

he house felt

a. She had been with me for ye

"I need you to come over. And pleas

he coffee table. Her eyes, full of a quiet wisdo

Mr. Miller,"

you to pack up everything of Ms. Stone' s. Her clothes, her books, her photos. Everythin

k down shimmering gowns and designer suits, folding them carefully and placing them in boxes. I packed away her jewelry,

f the closet was bare. The bathroom counter was clear of her endle

kitchen, wiping d

new staff, sir?" she

f the staff are staying with me

rateful smile on her f

ous living room, now dotte

, more to myself than to her. "I have a feeling thi

t me, a questi

the guest room is ready. It' s going to need a d

ransformation up close. She had seen the n

ept in the guest room. The bed was unfamiliar