Page 1 of The Professor's Wife

CHAPTER ONE

Notes from the Dark:

A great philosopher believed that becoming a better person began with understanding yourself. That if you looked inward—at your thoughts, your desires, and the things driving your actions—you might begin to see the truth of who you were. This, said Plato, was the key to a good life.

But I am not living a good life.

I am in hell.

I stared at my shaking hands. It had been less than a week since I left my life behind. I was dizzy, anxious, and confused.

Alone.

I was completely alone, and though I had grown used to that feeling, this was a different sort of alone.

I took a deep breath and held it until my chest ached. When I finally let it out, it came shakily. I wasn’t about to cry. There were no tears left to shed. This was the kind of pain you felt when you had known for a while that your life was silently unraveling—dissolving into the shadows of who you used to be. Like watching a train wreck. You saw it coming, but the fact that it was finally here—that I had arrived at this exact point in time—felt surreal. It was a detached sort of pain. A numbness with jagged edges.

I didn’t want to think about the moment it all changed. About how I scrambled. How I spiraled. How I snapped after drifting in a void for so long. Something inside me had been holding on past its limit, stretched so thin that it had finally given out.

Quietly on the outside.

Roaring on the inside.

I had yet to scream.

I had yet to sob.

I was just…fractured.

I brushed a strand of dark auburn hair from my face and tucked it behind my ear. Then I looked up, trying to summon the confidence to inspect my surroundings. I sat up straighter, hoping I looked every bit like a woman with choices. A woman who had come here because she wanted to.

Truthfully, I was second-guessing all of it. I was itching for the reading chair I had left behind. For the bookshelf I had poured countless hours into. Those things had provided a comfort I needed now more than anything, but they belonged to a life I could no longer return to.

I was going to crumble, wasn’t I?

But I didn’t want to. Something felt different this time.

It had to be.

There was no going back after what I had done.

The damage was catastrophic and irreversible.

I swallowed and looked down at my watch. It was eight thirty. The night was still young. Seated at a small table for two, I spun my untouched glass of water, lost in my self-inflicted chaos. The entrance remained in the corner of my vision. I had chosen the table for that reason without admitting it to myself.

Finally, I picked up the glass and brought it to my lips. I paused before drinking. Distant music filtered through theroom, but it wasn’t blaring from a speaker. It was coming from the pub’s patio.

A male voice began to sing.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking in the melody floating through the air. Unable to help myself, I put the glass back down, stood, and walked out to the patio. The large tables were packed, but a few of the smaller ones still had empty seats. I chose one near the middle, directly facing the singer no more than fifteen feet away.

Out there, his warm voice vibrated through me, putting me strangely at ease.

I had heard the song once or twice before, but this time it settled differently inside me. His voice rose and softened like a tide pulling back, then returning. It was a song about holding on and still losing your grip. About memories slipping through you, no matter how carefully you tried to contain them. About wanting to let go even when your body refused.

The ache came in surges—strong, sudden, then gone again. It kept returning. Uninvited. Familiar. Relentless.

Like grief had its own rhythm, and I was caught inside it.