Chapter 110: BONUS - -THE WOMAN HE LEFT BEHIND

Chapter 110: BONUS Chapter -THE WOMAN HE LEFT BEHIND

MONDAY

6:14 A.M. — SHARON’S APARTMENT

SHARON’S POV

The baby started crying six minutes before Sharon’s alarm.

Sharon opened one eye.

The ceiling remained exactly where she’d left it.

The apartment was quiet except for the increasingly offended noises coming from the bassinet beside her bed.

"I’m awake."

The crying continued.

"I said I’m awake."

Apparently verbal confirmation was insufficient.

Sharon pushed herself upright and reached into the bassinet.

Her daughter immediately quieted.

"Manipulative."

Big brown eyes blinked up at her.

"Don’t look innocent. We both know what happened."

Mila yawned.

Sharon’s entire face softened.

There had been a time when Sharon imagined giving birth very differently.

A private hospital suite.

Flowers everywhere.

Photographers outside.

Anthony pacing beside her bed pretending his anxiety was romantic rather than controlling.

Maybe some ridiculous announcement.

MORRISON HEIR ARRIVES.

She had imagined expensive blankets and monogrammed everything.

Instead, Mila had been born on a rainy Wednesday morning after seventeen hours of labor, one failed epidural adjustment, three threats against the existence of men generally, and Sharon informing a nurse that whoever invented contractions deserved prison.

Anthony hadn’t been there.

Allison had.

Not in the delivery room.

Sharon would have thrown something if she’d tried.

But Allison had made sure Sharon wasn’t alone.

There had been an attorney.

A victim advocate.

A private security contact Sharon could choose to use or ignore.

And when Sharon’s insurance temporarily complicated part of the hospital admission, the problem had somehow disappeared without anyone arriving to make a speech about generosity.

Sharon knew who had fixed it.

Allison had never admitted it.

That almost annoyed Sharon more.

She lifted Mila.

"You’re expensive."

Mila grabbed her pajama shirt.

"And violent."

The baby’s fist tightened.

"Very violent."

Sharon kissed her forehead.

Six months.

Mila was six months old.

Healthy.

Loud.

Beautiful.

Completely unimpressed by her mother’s former social ambitions.

Sharon liked that about her.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She glanced over.

A news alert.

MORRISON PROCEEDINGS MOVE TOWARD FINAL RESOLUTION

Sharon stared at the headline.

Once, seeing Anthony’s name would have ruined her morning.

Then it would have consumed her entire day.

She would have clicked.

Read every word.

Searched for Allison’s name.

Searched for her own.

Wondered what Anthony had said.

Who he’d blamed.

Whether he was angry.

Whether he missed her.

Whether he was going to find a way to reach her.

This morning, Sharon looked at Mila.

Then dismissed the notification.

She had bottles to wash.

⸻

7:46 A.M.

Her apartment wasn’t enormous.

That had bothered her at first.

The kitchen opened directly into the living room.

There were two bedrooms, one bathroom and exactly one closet Sharon considered offensively small.

But it was hers.

No Morrison money.

No man choosing the furniture.

No social calendar built around somebody else’s reputation.

The rent came out of her account every month.

The first time it happened, Sharon had nearly cried.

Then she’d become angry at herself for nearly crying.

Then she’d cried anyway.

She was allowed.

Her mother arrived at 7:48.

"You’re late."

"By two minutes."

"Mila noticed."

Her mother took the baby.

"Mila cannot read clocks."

"You don’t know that."

Her mother looked at her.

Sharon grabbed her work bag.

"I have a meeting at nine."

"Did you eat?"

"I’ll eat there."

"Sharon."

"I have yogurt."

"That isn’t breakfast."

"It literally is."

Her mother muttered something as Sharon searched for her keys.

"Are you still going out Friday?"

Sharon stopped.

"Maybe."

"With Marcus?"

"His name is Malcolm."

"Same letter."

"That is not how names work."

Her mother smiled.

Sharon narrowed her eyes.

"Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"You’re thinking loudly."

"I like him."

"You’ve met him twice."

"And neither time did he insult a waiter."

Sharon froze.

Her mother immediately regretted it.

Anthony had done that.

Constantly.

Little humiliations.

Little demonstrations that everyone in the room existed below him.

Sharon picked up her keys.

"Malcolm and I aren’t serious."

"I didn’t say you were."

"We’ve had coffee three times."

"Four."

"How do you know that?"

"You told me."

"I need to tell you less."

Her mother kissed Mila’s cheek.

"Have a good day."

Sharon looked at her daughter.

"Be good."

Mila smiled.

Traitor.

⸻

8:39 A.M. — HARTWELL COMMUNITY DEVELOPMENT

Sharon had a job.

A real one.

That still felt strange enough to think about sometimes.

Not a ceremonial position Anthony had arranged.

Not a board seat that required her to attend two lunches a year.

Not a title attached to somebody else’s last name.

She worked in donor relations and community partnerships for a regional housing nonprofit.

She had started part-time during her pregnancy.

Now she worked four days a week.

She wasn’t changing the world.

She wasn’t running an empire.

She answered emails.

Prepared grant packets.

Called sponsors.

Coordinated community events.

Sometimes she spent forty-five minutes correcting a spreadsheet because somebody had entered dates in three different formats.

She loved it.

Mostly.

Her supervisor, Denise, appeared beside her desk at 8:51.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"You have the Whitaker packet?"

Sharon handed it over.

Denise flipped through the first pages.

"You fixed the projected participation numbers?"

"They were using last year’s enrollment."

"Good catch."

That tiny sentence pleased Sharon far more than it should have.

Good catch.

Not Mrs. Morrison.

Not Anthony’s wife.

Not the woman from the scandal.

Just something she’d done correctly.

Denise started to walk away.

Then turned.

"Oh. Somebody dropped something for you downstairs."

Sharon’s stomach tightened.

"What?"

"A package."

"From who?"

"No idea. Security screened it."

Security.

That word had been part of her employment agreement.

Not because Hartwell normally provided special security for donor-relations employees.

Because Sharon’s situation wasn’t normal.

The arrangement had been discreet.

Temporary.

And, as she’d later discovered, funded through a victim-protection structure that couldn’t be traced back to Allison personally.

Sharon knew anyway.

She always knew.

"Where is it?"

"Reception."

Sharon went downstairs.

The package was small.

No return address.

Her name printed neatly.

She stared at it.

The receptionist noticed.

"It was screened."

"I know."

"Do you want me to open it?"

Sharon almost said yes.

Then she shook her head.

"No."

She opened it herself.

Inside was a baby book.

Nothing expensive.

Nothing threatening.

Just a children’s book.

A note was tucked beneath it.

Sharon recognized the handwriting.

For Mila.

Apparently six months is when babies begin developing strong literary opinions. Choose carefully.

— Allison

Sharon stared at it.

Then laughed once despite herself.

The receptionist smiled.

"Friend?"

Sharon’s answer came automatically.

"No."

Then she looked at the book again.

"It’s complicated."

⸻

12:16 P.M. — HARTWELL COURTYARD

Sharon called Allison during lunch.

She almost didn’t.

She had Allison’s number.

That alone was strange.

There had been a time when Sharon would have done nearly anything to remove Allison Croft from her life.

Then there had been a time when she’d needed Allison to save it.

Neither history disappeared because Anthony was gone.

Allison answered on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Why did you send my child propaganda?"

Silence.

Then:

"Sharon?"

"The book."

"Oh."

"It has a talking bear."

"I didn’t realize talking bears were politically active."

"They’re suspicious."

Allison laughed.

Sharon hated that the sound no longer irritated her as much as it used to.

"How are you?" Allison asked.

There it was.

A simple question.

Sharon stared across the courtyard.

"Fine."

"Okay."

That was another thing Allison had learned.

She didn’t challenge Sharon’s fine.

Didn’t turn it into an invitation to confess.

Sharon hated that she appreciated that too.

"Mila is good."

"Six months already?"

"Last Wednesday."

"Wow."

"She has two teeth."

"That seems dangerous."

"It is."

Another silence.

Sharon could have ended the call.

Instead she said, "I saw the news."

Allison’s voice changed slightly.

Not alarmed.

Just attentive.

"About Anthony?"

"Yes."

"You don’t have to follow it."

"I know."

"He can’t reach you through the proceedings. Your information remains protected under the existing orders."

"I know that too."

Sharon picked at the corner of her napkin.

"You did that."

"The attorneys did."

"Don’t."

Allison went quiet.

"Don’t do that thing where you make yourself invisible whenever you help somebody."

"I didn’t do it alone."

"That isn’t what I said."

A longer pause.

Then Allison said, "I helped."

"Thank you."

The words felt strange.

Not painful.

Just overdue.

"You’re welcome."

Sharon looked down.

"I still don’t like you."

Allison laughed.

Actually laughed.

Sharon frowned.

"That wasn’t supposed to be funny."

"I’m sorry."

"You’re not."

"No."

Sharon found herself smiling.

"I don’t hate you anymore."

This time Allison didn’t joke.

"That sounds healthier for you."

"See? That’s exactly the kind of answer that makes me reconsider."

"I can hang up."

"Don’t."

The word came faster than Sharon intended.

Neither woman commented on it.

Sharon exhaled.

"I hated you because it was easier."

Allison said nothing.

Sharon appreciated that.

She didn’t need another conversation dissecting Anthony.

They had already lived it.

"I blamed you for things that weren’t yours," Sharon continued. "And some things that were."

"Fair."

"You were irritating."

"Still am."

"Yes."

"Also fair."

Sharon leaned back.

"I thought if you disappeared, everything would work."

"I know."

"It didn’t."

"No."

"And then when everything fell apart, you were the person who helped me."

"I wasn’t going to leave you there."

"I know."

That was all.

No grand forgiveness.

No rewritten history.

Sharon wasn’t going to pretend she’d always misunderstood Allison.

They had hurt each other.

They had competed.

Sharon had made choices she wasn’t proud of.

Allison had made choices Sharon still didn’t entirely understand.

But Anthony had depended on every woman around him seeing another woman as the enemy.

Sharon wasn’t interested in giving him that victory anymore.

"I might be seeing someone."

The sentence escaped before she could stop it.

Allison became immediately interested.

"Oh?"

"Calm down."

"I said one syllable."

"It was invasive."

"Who is he?"

"There it is."

Allison laughed.

"Fine. You don’t have to tell me."

"Malcolm."

"Malcolm."

"He works in urban planning."

"Okay."

"He has a normal apartment."

"Good."

"He drives a normal car."

"Also good."

"He once apologized to a waitress because she brought him the wrong drink."

Allison paused.

"That might be the greenest flag you’ve mentioned."

Sharon laughed.

"We’re not serious."

"Okay."

"We’ve had coffee."

"Okay."

"And dinner once."

"Sharon."

"What?"

"You don’t have to convince me you’re not serious."

"I wasn’t."

"You absolutely were."

Sharon rolled her eyes.

"Marriage made you annoying."

"I was annoying before marriage."

"True."

Sharon looked at the time.

"I have to go."

"Okay."

"Thank you for the book."

"You’re welcome."

"And Allison?"

"Yeah?"

"If Mila hates it, I’m sending it back."

"That’s fair."

Sharon ended the call.

For several seconds, she sat there looking at her phone.

Friend?

No.

Not exactly.

Enemy?

No.

Definitely not anymore.

Maybe there were relationships that didn’t need a title yet.

Apparently everyone in Allison’s life was collecting those.

⸻

5:34 P.M. — SHARON’S APARTMENT

Mila hated peas.

This became clear immediately.

Sharon offered one spoonful.

Her daughter looked personally betrayed.

"You’re dramatic."

Mila blew peas onto Sharon’s shirt.

"Okay."

Her mother laughed from the kitchen.

"Don’t encourage her."

"She has opinions."

"She has violence."

Sharon wiped her shirt.

Her phone rang.

Unknown number.

Her body reacted before her mind did.

Shoulders tight.

Breath shallow.

Eyes immediately on Mila.

Her mother saw.

"Don’t answer."

Sharon stared at the screen.

The call ended.

A voicemail notification appeared.

Then, seconds later, a text from the victim liaison assigned to Anthony’s case.

Attempted media contact. Not connected to Morrison. Number has been documented. No action needed from you.

Sharon exhaled.

Months ago, that moment would have destroyed her evening.

Now there was a system.

A boundary.

People whose job was to handle it.

She didn’t have to investigate.

Didn’t have to call Allison.

Didn’t have to call Anthony’s attorney.

Didn’t have to solve anything.

She blocked the number.

Then returned to the peas.

"Where were we?"

Mila slapped the tray.

"Right. War."

⸻

FRIDAY

7:02 P.M. — MARLOWE’S

Malcolm was already at the restaurant.

Sharon noticed three things immediately.

He had arrived before her.

He had not ordered for her.

And when she approached, he stood.

Not theatrically.

Just because he’d been raised correctly.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

He pulled out the chair.

Sharon sat.

She still wasn’t sure about him.

That was allowed.

Malcolm knew she had a daughter.

He knew she’d been married.

He knew the marriage had ended badly.

He knew there had been legal proceedings.

He did not know every detail.

He had never asked for them.

Halfway through dinner, he mentioned a redevelopment proposal that had consumed his entire week.

Sharon listened.

Actually listened.

Not because she needed to understand his business connections.

Not because his career could benefit her.

Not because she was calculating anything.

She simply liked the way his face changed when he talked about work he cared about.

Then he stopped.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"I’ve been talking about zoning for ten minutes."

"It was twelve."

He winced.

"That bad?"

"I didn’t say bad."

"You counted."

"I count everything."

"I’ll remember that."

Sharon smiled.

He didn’t remind her of Anthony.

That had frightened her initially.

She’d thought attraction was supposed to feel like what she’d felt before.

Immediate.

Overwhelming.

A little dangerous.

Malcolm didn’t feel dangerous.

He felt...

easy.

She didn’t entirely trust easy yet.

But she was learning not to punish it for being unfamiliar.

After dinner, he walked her to her car.

"I’d like to see you again."

Sharon leaned against the door.

"You’re very direct."

"I’ve been told."

"I have a baby."

"I know."

"My schedule is terrible."

"I’ve gathered."

"Sometimes I cancel things."

"Okay."

"And I’m not looking for someone to play father."

Malcolm nodded.

"I’m not applying for the position."

That answer surprised her.

He continued.

"I like you, Sharon. I’d like to have dinner with you again. That’s the entire proposal."

She stared at him.

"Urban planners really do love proposals."

"Occupational hazard."

She smiled.

"Next Friday."

His answering smile was warm.

"Next Friday."

He didn’t try to kiss her.

That surprised her too.

She got into the car.

And for once, she didn’t analyze what that meant.

⸻

9:48 P.M. — SHARON’S APARTMENT

Mila was asleep.

Her mother had gone home.

Sharon sat on the couch in pajamas with the television playing quietly.

The news returned to Anthony.

A photograph appeared.

Older than the last one she’d seen.

Still handsome.

Still polished.

Still capable of making a camera believe whatever he wanted it to believe.

Sharon reached for the remote.

Then stopped.

She watched for twenty seconds.

Not because she missed him.

Because she wanted to know whether seeing him still had power.

The reporter mentioned pending proceedings.

Financial claims.

Civil exposure.

Restrictions.

Names Sharon recognized.

Then Allison’s photograph appeared briefly as background context.

Sharon stared at it.

Once, that face had represented everything Sharon thought had been stolen from her.

Anthony.

Status.

Security.

A future.

Now Sharon understood something much less dramatic.

Allison hadn’t stolen Anthony.

Anthony had simply spent years convincing women that being chosen by him was winning.

Sharon picked up the remote.

The television went black.

Her phone buzzed.

Malcolm.

Made it home. Thank you for dinner.

A second message appeared.

Also, for the record, I only discussed zoning for 9 minutes. The rest was infrastructure financing.

Sharon laughed.

She replied.

Still boring.

Three dots appeared.

Next Friday?

Sharon looked toward Mila’s room.

Then at her apartment.

Her job bag sat beside the table.

A stack of grant documents waited inside it.

There were bottles drying beside the sink.

A tiny sock was inexplicably lying beneath the coffee table.

Nothing about this life resembled the one Sharon once thought she deserved.

That realization used to make her angry.

Tonight, it didn’t.

She typed:

Next Friday.

Then another thought occurred to her.

She opened Allison’s contact.

Stared at it.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Mila likes the book. Unfortunately.

The reply came less than a minute later.

I knew she had excellent taste.

Sharon rolled her eyes.

Then:

Don’t get excited. We’re still not friends.

Allison replied:

Understood. I’ll inform the friendship committee.

Sharon laughed hard enough that she had to cover her mouth so she wouldn’t wake Mila.

She typed:

I still don’t like you.

Three dots.

You’ve mentioned that.

Sharon smiled.

She didn’t answer again.

She didn’t need to.

She set the phone down.

For a long time, Sharon had thought her story had two possible endings.

Anthony chose her.

Or Anthony chose Allison.

She had never considered the third.

Anthony became irrelevant.

And Sharon chose herself.

From the bedroom came the first warning sound of a waking baby.

Sharon closed her eyes.

"No."

Another noise.

"Mila."

The baby began crying.

Sharon stood.

"Your timing is terrible."

She walked toward the bedroom.

Her daughter was waiting.

Her job would be waiting Monday.

Malcolm would be waiting Friday.

And somewhere across town, Allison Croft was probably being irritating in a house full of equally irritating people.

Sharon smiled as she lifted Mila from the crib.

No.

She didn’t hate Allison anymore.

She wasn’t quite ready to love her either.

That was fine.

Some endings didn’t need forgiveness.

Some only needed enough distance to finally see the truth.

And Sharon Morrison had an entire life left to live.