I closed the door behind me and didn’t look back.
Downstairs, a black car with a driver was waiting for me. Sitting in the back seat, I gazed out the window at the city, which now looked different. Not because it had changed, but because I had changed.
The phone rang. Dmitry. I rejected the call.
Then a text arrived: “Anya, forgive me. We can work this out. I love you.”
I deleted the message without replying.
