Chapter 7 - The Limestone Ghost
A month after the restructuring was finalized, I drove out to Lake Forest.
It was a cold, bright November morning. The leaves had fallen from the oak trees lining the long driveway, leaving the grey limestone house standing exposed against the pale blue sky. It looked grand, impressive, and completely devoid of warmth—like a tomb built for living people who had forgotten how to talk to each other.
I walked through the double front doors.
The entry hall was quiet. The sound of my heels echoed off the marble floor. Movers were already inside, carefully wrapping artwork in brown paper and hauling heavy furniture out to three waiting vans parked in the circular driveway.
Every piece of furniture in that house had been bought during the era of Callum’s illusion. The ten-thousand-dollar velvet sofas. The antique dining table where we had eaten silent, suffocating meals. The massive crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen ice from the high ceilings.
I walked up the grand staircase into the master suite.
The room was almost empty now. The king-sized bed was gone, leaving only four dark indentations in the plush cream carpet where the heavy wooden posts had stood for seven years.
Standing by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the frosted lawn was Callum.
He was allowed on the premises for two hours under the supervision of Everett’s paralegals to collect his personal clothing and family heirlooms. He was wearing an old grey sweater and faded jeans—the clothes he used to wear ten years ago when we lived in Lincoln Park.
He turned around when he heard my footsteps.
He looked thinner. His hair, which had been meticulously colored and styled every three weeks, was showing long streaks of pure white at the temples. The arrogant tilt of his chin was entirely gone; his shoulders were hunched forward as if he were trying to protect his chest from a cold wind.
"Zariah," he said softly.
"Callum."
He looked around the empty room, his eyes scanning the bare walls where our wedding portrait had hung until three days ago.
"It looks so big when there’s nothing in it," he whispered.
"It was always too big," I said, walking to the center of the room. "We bought it because you wanted the address, not because we needed the space."
He let out a long, shuddering breath, rubbing his hand over his face. "I went back to the old apartment building in Lincoln Park yesterday. The one on Webster Street."
I didn't say anything.
"The coffee shop on the corner is gone," he continued, his voice trembling slightly. "It’s a bank now. Everything changes so fast, Zariah. I stood on the sidewalk and remembered the night I cried on your shoulder because the logistics vendor defaulted. Do you remember what you said to me that night?"
I looked at him calmly. "I told you that numbers don't have emotions, Callum. They just show you where you are."
"You told me we were a team," he corrected, tears welling in his red-rimmed eyes. "You said as long as we were honest with each other, no market crash could destroy us."
"And I meant it," I said, my voice low and steady. "Until you decided that honesty was something you only owed me when you were broke."
He stepped toward me, his hands outstretched in a desperate, familiar gesture of pleading. "I lost my mind, Zariah. The money, the status, the board meetings... everyone was treating me like I was a god. People were laughing at my jokes, inviting me onto private jets, telling me I was a genius. I started believing them. I started feeling like I was untouchable."
"I know," I said. "And instead of staying grounded, you chose to surround yourself with people like Vivienne who fed the lie because they wanted a piece of the pie."
"She meant nothing to me!" he burst out, weeping openly now. "I swear to God, Zariah, she meant nothing! It was just vanity! It was just... I wanted to feel like I was the hero of the story!"
I watched him cry.
Three years ago, seeing Callum weep would have broken my heart. It would have sent me rushing to his side, pulling his head against my chest, and looking for ways to repair whatever had hurt him.
Now, watching him sob in the middle of an empty room in Lake Forest, I felt nothing. No anger. No satisfaction. No sorrow.
It was like looking at an invoice that had already been settled in full.
"The hero of the story doesn't sell out the person who built the kingdom, Callum," I said softly.
He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, looking at me with eyes full of absolute, shattering loss. "What am I supposed to do now?"
"You take your hundred thousand dollars," I told him, turning toward the doorway. "You buy a small apartment. You get a job as a mid-level analyst at a firm where nobody knows your name. And you spend the rest of your life learning how to do your own math."
May you like
I walked down the grand marble staircase, past the movers carrying out the last of the mahogany chairs, and stepped out into the crisp, clean morning air.
I didn't look back at the limestone house once.
