I didn't look up immediately.
The scent reached me first.
A woman's perfume.
Not mine.
Not even close.
Without thinking, I lifted my hand slightly, stopping him from coming any closer.
When I finally raised my eyes, they drifted to his neck.
Faint red marks.
Hickeys.
"Sorry," I said calmly, my voice steady. I smoothed the fold of a blouse flat against the suitcase lining, pressing the crease until it was sharp enough to cut. "I've been busy. Didn't check my phone."
He frowned, his gaze sweeping across the room.
Only then did he notice the suitcases. The empty shelves. The missing pieces.
"Don't tell me you've been busy tearing down the house," he said, irritation creeping into his tone. "You just got out of the clinic. You should be resting."
His eyes landed on a few unopened boxes I hadn't gotten to yet.
Inside were the couple items I had bought recently. Still new. Still unused.
"You don't want any of this?" he asked.
I bent down to pick one up.
Before I could even straighten, he reached out and took it from my hands.
"Fine, I'll throw them out for you," he said, almost impatiently. "But stop wasting money on useless stuff. What, do you think money grows on trees?"
His tone was casual.
Indifferent.
Like none of this mattered.
Then, as if nothing had happened at all, he added, "Go change. I'll take you out to eat."
Like this was just another normal day.
Like nothing was ending.
Instead, I walked out to the balcony.
From there, I watched him.
He carried the boxes downstairs and walked straight to the dumpster behind the building, past the black sedan idling at the curb where one of his soldiers sat waiting with the engine running.
No hesitation.
No second glance.
He tossed them in.
Just like that.
The same way he had thrown away our five years.
Effortlessly.
Like they meant nothing at all.
At the restaurant, a quiet place on neutral ground where the Family sometimes held private tables, he ordered several dishes without asking.
Most of them were our usual favorites.
The kind we always shared.
The kind tied to memories. Late-night laughter, old movies on the couch, lazy Sundays where time seemed to slow down and the world outside, with all its blood and obligation, couldn't reach us.
For a moment, it almost felt familiar.
Almost.
But then I saw it.
One more dish.
Bitter melon with scrambled eggs.
The one I hated the most.
He knew that.
He had always remembered.
Every little thing.
Until now.