Chapter 2
Holly turned to Mae and suddenly asked, "Did you know that when Jensen first started his business, he couldn't afford the rent? I was the one who covered it."
Mae's smile faltered for a second.
"Did you know I paid for half the down payment on this place? I oversaw every bit of the renovation, and even the chair you're sitting on—I picked it out myself," Holly went on.
Her voice stayed calm, but every word landed sharper than the last.
"You're sitting at my dining table, rubbing your belly, asking me to move aside for you—" Holly's eyes were rimmed with red as she stared at Mae. "Mae, who do you think you are?"
A slap rang out.
Wendy slapped Holly.
Holly's head jerked to the side, her ear ringing, her cheek stinging.
"You bitch!" Wendy shouted, jabbing a finger at her. "Jensen's willing to part on decent terms because you've been with him for three years. You really think you're someone special? You've got no family, no skills, and you can't even have kids. Who's going to want you once you walk out that door?"
Holly slowly turned her head back, a thin line of blood seeping from the split in her lip.
She stared at Wendy—the same woman who used to call her a "good daughter-in-law"—and felt that last, ridiculous shred of hope inside her finally wither away.
"Fine," Holly said, nodding. "I'm leaving."
Jensen looked momentarily conflicted—he hadn't expected her to give in so easily.
But relief quickly washed over his face.
"It's good you can see things clearly," he said. "I'll have the lawyer revise the agreement, but don't make this ugly, alright?"
Holly didn't spare him another glance. She just walked straight back to her room to pack.
Three years of marriage, and all she had to show for it was a twenty-inch suitcase.
She packed her ID, bank cards, a few clothes, and that battered old folder. Her fingers trembled as she zipped it up—she wasn't sure if it was from anger or just the chill in the air.
Mae's laughter floated in from the living room, soft but easy to recognize.
"Hey, Jensen, you don't think she'll change her mind again, do you?" Mae said.
"No," Jensen replied. "She needs me, but she cares more about saving face."
Holly caught that last line as she wheeled her suitcase out.
She didn't stop, just kept walking straight to the door.
Wendy stood there with her arms crossed, as if shooing away the plague. "Get out already. Don't dirty my floor."
Holly looked back at them one last time.
Jensen sat in the chair, his handsome face cold. Mae leaned against him, her belly showing, her eyes filled with the triumphant pity of someone who'd won. Wendy stood off to the side, arms crossed and smug, as if she'd finally swept out the daughter-in-law she'd never thought good enough.
This moment would be etched in Holly's memory forever.
"Don't worry," Holly said softly. "Once I'm gone, I won't be coming back."
Mae's smile turned even sweeter, dripping with fake concern. "Good luck, Holly. Hope everything works out for you."
Holly looked at her, then suddenly smiled back.
"You'd better be, too." Holly replied.
The moment the door closed, the warmth from inside was completely cut off.
The hallway was freezing.
Holly dragged her suitcase down the stairs, step by step. By the time she reached the entrance, it had unexpectedly started to rain. The late autumn night was bitter, the damp wind cutting right through her, chilling her to the bone.
She stood by the curb, trying to flag down a cab, but there wasn't a single one in sight.
Her phone lit up with a text from Jensen.
[Ten a.m. tomorrow. Courthouse. Don't be late.]
Holly stared at the text, and suddenly, she felt like laughing.
She always figured that since she'd stuck by him through his roughest times—even when things got ugly—there'd at least be a little bit of affection left between them, even if the love was gone.
Turns out, there wasn't even that.
Just then, a black Maybach pulled up slowly in front of her.
The window rolled down, revealing the sharp features and aloof demeanor of a young man.
"Holly Grant?"
Holly froze. "Who are you?"
The man stepped out of the car, opened an umbrella for her, and said calmly, "I'm Charles Grant."
"By Cliff's last wish, I'm here to take you home."
Holly stood there, momentarily dazed, watching the rain slide off the umbrella and splash at her feet.
"Sorry, I think you've got the wrong person."
Charles looked at her, his expression complicated—like he was staring at something he'd lost ages ago, and now that it was back, he wasn't sure if it was real.
After a few seconds, he pulled a worn leather envelope from his suit pocket and handed it to her.
"If, after you read what's inside, you still think I've got the wrong person," he paused, "I'll apologize."
Holly looked down and saw a line of bold, familiar steady handwriting on the envelope.
For Holly.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She recognized that handwriting.
It was the same handwriting as the one on the back of an old photo — the photo her adoptive mother had clutched in her hand on her deathbed, one she never got the chance to give Holly.
The rain was pouring even harder now.
Holly stood beneath the yellow glow of the streetlight, her fingers slowly tightening around the edge of the envelope.