Chapter 11 - The Journey to Ann Arbor
The hum of my sedan’s engine felt like a steady heartbeat against the quiet Friday afternoon. Two days had passed since Attorney Harrison delivered the envelope and the platinum ring back into my custody, two days of surreal, breathless transition. My father’s health had stabilized enough for him to nod weakly and whisper a single word when I told him where I was going: *Go.* My mother had stayed silent, her eyes averted, her rigid posture finally broken by the sheer weight of consequence. She didn't try to stop me. She didn't mention the Sterling name. There was nothing left of the dynasty to protect, which meant, for the first time in my life, I was entirely free to act as my own man.
The drive from Detroit to Ann Arbor took just under an hour. As I navigated the interstate, the late-afternoon sky shifted from a pale slate gray to bruised streaks of amber and violet. The Michigan air was biting, carrying the sharp, crisp scent of melting snow and early spring earth. My hands gripped the steering wheel, my palms damp despite the cabin heater. Every mile marker felt like a countdown, a threshold between the coward I had been on Thanksgiving night and whatever version of myself was waiting at the end of the road.
I parked the car in the gravel lot near the edge of the arboretum, cutting the engine and plunging the interior into a heavy, suffocating silence. My boots crunched against the frozen gravel as I stepped out, pulling my wool coat tighter around my chest. The old astronomical observatory sat atop the small hill, its weather-beaten copper dome catching the dying light of the sun like a rusted crown. It was a place Meline and I had visited years ago, back when we were university students with empty pockets, infinite dreams, and no idea how heavy life would eventually become.
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As I climbed the stone steps, my breath pluming in the frigid air, I checked my watch. 5:45 PM. Fifteen minutes until sunset. My heart hammered against my ribs with a rhythm that felt almost painful. Every step up the stone staircase felt weighted with memory—the sound of her voice asking me if I felt the same way, the cold click of the wedding ring hitting the polished mahogany table, the look in her eyes as she walked out into the snow. I had earned every ounce of the fear currently twisting my stomach into knots. I had chosen my mother’s toxic pride over the woman who loved me, and it had taken the total annihilation of my world to teach me the cost of that betrayal.
Reaching the top of the hill, I pushed open the heavy wooden side door of the observatory. The interior smelled of old paper, polished brass, and cedar. Dust motes danced in the slanted rays of golden light streaming through the high arched windows. And standing by the giant refracting telescope in the center of the rotunda, her back to me, was Meline.
