Chap­ter 10 begins with a small but unex­pect­ed luxury—soft-scented sheets, the kind Jane nev­er imag­ined she’d expe­ri­ence. Each morn­ing in Eddie’s bed feels unre­al, wrapped in linen that smells like safe­ty and suc­cess. After two weeks of sink­ing into plush cush­ions, sip­ping cin­na­mon-laced cof­fee, and loung­ing in com­fort, Jane finds her­self cling­ing tight­ly to a lifestyle that once seemed unreach­able.

The mas­ter bed­room has become her sanc­tu­ary, styled in rich tex­tures and qui­et mas­culin­i­ty that con­trast sharply with the loud, col­or­ful imprint Bea left on the rest of the house. This room, it seems, is where Eddie has reclaimed space just for himself—and now, by exten­sion, for Jane. As she tip­toes through the house bare­foot, warm mug in hand, it feels like she’s step­ping into per­ma­nence.

Down­stairs, Eddie greets her with cof­fee craft­ed exact­ly to her taste—a rit­u­al that start­ed awk­ward­ly and evolved into habit. She jokes about only being with him for the morn­ing brew, and he plays along, mak­ing her laugh in a way that eas­es the walls she’s spent years build­ing. For the first time, Jane feels not just want­ed, but appre­ci­at­ed for who she real­ly is, not just who she’s pre­tend­ing to be.

But beneath the morn­ing ban­ter is a ten­sion Jane doesn’t ful­ly admit, not even to her­self. She still walks dogs for cash. She still buys her own clothes, pays for her own gas. The mon­ey Eddie offers—his casu­al men­tion of cred­it cards and shared accounts—feels like a gift and a test.

She smiles when he offers to add her to his check­ing account, though her mind spins at how eas­i­ly he gives her access to his wealth. For Jane, who has always scraped by, who’s known too many men who offered noth­ing and expect­ed every­thing, this ges­ture is jar­ring. Still, she plays her role perfectly—grateful, charmed, compliant—knowing it gets her clos­er to the life she wants.

Then Eddie asks her to move in offi­cial­ly, sug­gest­ing she pick up her things from her old place. Jane teas­es him, plays coy, but inside, she knows she’s already made up her mind. She’s done with her old life—the moldy apart­ment, the depress­ing bath­room, and espe­cial­ly John.

The con­trast between her for­mer home and Eddie’s pris­tine man­sion hits hard when she arrives at the old apart­ment. Every­thing looks small­er, grim­i­er, sad­der than she remem­bered. Inside, John is sprawled on the couch, watch­ing tele­vi­sion, still cling­ing to a rou­tine Jane is des­per­ate to escape.

Their con­ver­sa­tion is exact­ly what she expects—passive-aggressive jabs, veiled insults, pos­ses­sive digs. John demands notice, com­plains about rent, and tries to belit­tle her one last time. But Jane, for once, doesn’t flinch.

She walks out with­out tak­ing a sin­gle item. Not her clothes, not the keep­sakes, not even the sen­ti­men­tal tokens she’d pock­et­ed from Thorn­field homes. That part of her life is over, and leav­ing it all behind is the most pow­er­ful choice she’s ever made.

Back out­side, she’s met with anoth­er surprise—Eddie, wait­ing by his car. See­ing him there, amid the cracked pave­ment and rust-stained stair­wells, shakes her. He doesn’t belong here, and by exten­sion, nei­ther does she any­more.

When she asks if he fol­lowed her, Eddie admits it with a sheep­ish smile. It’s roman­tic on the sur­face, but some­thing about it unset­tles Jane. The charm is still there, but so is a note of con­trol, of possession—one she’s not sure how to inter­pret.

Before she can decide how she feels, John inserts him­self again. His pres­ence, greasy and bit­ter, only sharp­ens the divide between Eddie and the life Jane is leav­ing. When he claims she owes him notice, Eddie doesn’t argue—he just watch­es, wait­ing.

There’s a shift in Eddie’s pos­ture, a qui­et ten­sion that sim­mers beneath his easy smile. Jane feels it too, a tight­en­ing of ener­gy between the men. She sees the way Eddie’s fist curls slight­ly, a flash of some­thing unspo­ken but unmis­tak­able.