Page 1 of Blind Prophet

PROLOGUE

CAROLINE

It was a day like any other September day. It might’ve been raining, or maybe it was sunny. It didn’t matter on a day that carried such weight. It was the normalcy that sticks with me. Lights turned on and off. The occasional siren sounded on the streets outside. The sharp scent of citrusy dish soap clung to my hands. Notifications popped up on my phone, unaware of the enormity of what was happening.

My fingers trembled as I zipped the last suitcase. Fractures deep in my chest threatened to bring me to my knees, rendering me immobile. My heart didn’t want to leave, but my survival instincts overrode emotion.

I stared at the door for hours. A weak voice begged to just leave a note, but I couldn’t be that person. I’d like to think I sat there, sitting beside my luggage, remembering our past, but that wouldn’t be true. I chanted to myself, in a near-meditative trance, wearing a crisp, ironed blouse and navy slacks that would garner Gwyneth Paltrow’s approval. Make-up lightly done, hair glossy and smooth, gold Cartier bracelets on one wrist, and a gold diamond-encrusted Rolex on the other. My pale pink nails were freshly manicured. If the paparazzi lingered outside, the photographs would present a well put-together person departing her home with luggage.

My nerves churned. I hoped for luck, to exit unobserved. The last thing I wanted was to have my photograph circulate, fueling rumors of marital strife.

I imagined an unnamed source might say they’ve sensed issues for months. A writer would speculate that Dorian and Caroline Moore haven’t been seen together since the MOMA exhibit two months prior. A body language expert might decode a photograph from two years prior to one snapped when we’d been ducking paparazzi:See how she’s changed? Her arms are wrapped around her middle; she’s crouching forward like she doesn’t want him touching her, and they aren’t making eye contact.I stopped reading the articles when my mind picked up the writing habit.

The lock clicked. I swallowed.

My spine stiffened. My chest ached.

The door opened.

His gaze tracked me and the two silver Rimowa suitcases—post-wedding gifts. Before, I had owned standard fare. To the average pedestrian, the replacements might appear ordinary, but to those in the know, they’re among the most expensive on the market. Understated luxury. Something I hadn’t picked up on right out of college but quickly came to understand to be a requirement for a Moore.

Wordlessly, Dorian closed the door, and the lock clicked.

When he faced me again, his shoulders sagged, I think. Time may have painted that flicker of emotion in the recesses of my memory. His freshly shaven jaw held no discernible emotion.

“So this is it.”

It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement of expectation.

“Where will you go?”

“I’ll stay at my parents.” In Connecticut, the paparazzi would be less present. At his urging, I quit my job after we got married. The ever-present paparazzi unnerved me, and my colleagues began to see me as a celebrity instead of a junior-level account manager. Ironically, if he’d supported me or helped me find a way to continue with my career, I might have thrived.

Although…thrived is a strong verb. It’s possible I wouldn’t have suffocated.

Anger surfaced with the memory of my resignation. If I recalled correctly, I’d made no attempt to conceal the emotion on that day in our townhome.

“You won’t get a dollar more than the prenuptial agreement allows. You know that, right?”

His statement struck like a scalpel—deliberate and strategic. When Dorian chose to speak, he did so with intention.

“I don’t want a fight.”

I want my sanity. My confidence. My sense of worth.

He stood there by my suitcases. Unreadable. Silent.

I don’t know what I expected or why I waited for hours for an awkward interlude. It was a marriage no one wanted, and it ran its course. My marriage failed, and there was little point in staying when my efforts weren’t wanted.

When I stood, I swiped my palms against my trousers and noticed how cold my hands had grown.

Are photographers outside?The question died on my tongue. It didn’t matter.

A thousand regrets weighed down my chest, and a singular hope kept it functioning. Maybe, just maybe, he does want me to stay. Maybe he’ll want to make the effort.

But if he had nothing to say, neither did I.

My hand fell to the luggage handle, and his covered mine.

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