Fluoxetine

No. 1

The sliding glass doors of BOS's Terminal 4 hissed open, spitting Eulalie Bradford out into the biting October wind. She shivered, pulling her trench coat tighter around her frame, her knuckles white against the handle of her silver Rimowa suitcase. It was heavier than she remembered. Or maybe she was just weaker.

She stopped at the curb, her eyes scanning the line of idling black town cars in the VIP pickup zone. She looked for the familiar license plate, the sleek silhouette of the Holloway family Maybach.

Nothing.

Just a line of indifferent taxis and a gust of exhaust fumes that tasted like burnt rubber and loneliness.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen lit up, the brightness stinging her tired eyes. October 14.

No unread messages. No missed calls. Not from Caden. Not from the house manager. Not even from the automated calendar reminder she used to share with her husband.

Eulalie let out a short, dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. She opened the Uber app, her fingers hovering for a second before typing in the destination: Holloway Penthouse.

The driver was a man named Tariq with a dashboard full of bobbleheads and a need to fill the silence. He talked about the weather, the traffic, the rising cost of bagels. Eulalie stared out the window, watching the gray blur of the Expressway. Her ears were ringing, a high-pitched whine that drowned out Tariq's voice.

Five years ago, their marriage had been a strategic merger—the pristine, old-money Bradford legacy sanitizing the ruthless, new-money Holloway capital. Caden had needed her family’s irreproachable name to secure his first billionaire investors, and she, foolishly, had believed he actually wanted her. She had traded her brilliant coding career for the role of a perfect trophy wife, thinking love would eventually follow the contract.

"Big night for the city, huh?" Tariq asked, gesturing vaguely at the radio.

Eulalie blinked, focusing on the tinny sound coming from the speakers. An entertainment reporter's voice cut through the static.

"...and all eyes are on the Plaza Hotel tonight, where tech darling Adalynn Pennington is hosting a massive celebration for her latest product launch. Rumor has it the guest list is exclusive to the city's top one percent..."

Eulalie's hand flew to her seatbelt, gripping the nylon strap until her fingernails dug into her palm. The pain was sharp, grounding. Adalynn. Her half-sister. The woman who had taken her father's attention, her family's legacy, and now, apparently, her husband's time on her birthday.

"Yeah," Eulalie whispered, her voice raspy. "Big night."

The car pulled up to the limestone façade of the building on Fifth Avenue. The doorman, a young guy named Leo, did a double-take when he saw her stepping out of a Toyota Camry instead of the family car.

"Mrs. Holloway?" Leo scrambled forward, reaching for her luggage. "We... we didn't know you were coming back today."

"It's a surprise, Leo," she said, putting a finger to her lips. The lie tasted like ash on her tongue. She wasn't surprising them. She was saving face.

The elevator ride to the penthouse felt like an ascent to the gallows. The numbers ticked up—20, 30, 40. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, uneven rhythm. She checked her reflection in the polished brass doors. Her face was pale, devoid of makeup, dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes. She looked like a ghost.

Ghost. The old nickname from her coding days flashed in her mind. She pushed it away.

The elevator doors slid open silently.

The foyer was a minefield of colorful tissue paper and curling ribbons. A pair of Caden's Italian leather loafers were kicked off haphazardly near the console table, next to a tiny pair of glittery sneakers.

Laughter drifted from the living room. It was the sound of Elara, her five-year-old daughter. A sound that usually filled Eulalie with warmth, but today, it chilled her. It was a high, breathless giggle, the kind Elara only made when she was getting exactly what she wanted.

Eulalie left her suitcase by the door and stepped softly onto the Persian rug. She moved behind the lacquered ebony screen that separated the foyer from the living area, peering through the slats.

The scene before her was bathed in the warm, golden light of the chandelier.

Caden Holloway was on his knees. The ruthless venture capitalist, the man who terrified boardrooms, was kneeling on the carpet, holding up a massive, plush unicorn with a pink ribbon around its neck.