Chapter 3

That evening, because Charlotte claimed she was too traumatized to be alone, Jonathan brought her back to our house.

Sitting on the dining room table was the stomach-soothing soup I had cooked for him the morning I left.

It was already emitting a faint, sour smell.

Charlotte sighed, looking at the pot with exaggerated pity. "Did Emily make this for you? Doesn't she know you hate soup?"

Jonathan let out a dismissive scoff.

"She only made that crap to try and guilt-trip me into giving her a higher allowance. You think she actually cares about what I like?" he sneered. "Not everyone is as attentive as you."

I watched the scene with absolute apathy. The irony was suffocating.

He skipped breakfast every day of his life, which resulted in a severe ulcer. He had even been hospitalized for gastroenteritis.

So, I spent hours researching recipes, waking up at 5:00 AM every single morning to make him specialized broths.

In his eyes, however, it was just the annoying behavior of a gold digger.

He guided Charlotte to the sofa, pressing her gently onto the cushions before heading into the kitchen. He returned with an immaculate platter of freshly sliced fruits.

"Just rest," he murmured softly. "Whatever you're craving for dinner, just tell me. I'll make it for you."

For a fleeting second, I saw the gentle, refined man I had fallen in love with.

Charlotte looked up at him, her eyes shining with adoration. "I wish I had married you. Emily is so lucky, and she doesn't even know how to appreciate it."

Jonathan forced a smile. He stood up and walked over to the dining table, his expression morphing into intense irritation.

"Emily is a nightmare. All this pointless cooking is nothing but a nuisance."

His voice completely died in his throat. Lying right next to the soured soup was the divorce paper. My signature was already inked neatly at the bottom.

His knuckles turned stark white as he gripped the paperwork. A second later, he violently ripped the document into shreds, hurling the confetti into the trash can.

"Since when does she have the right to demand a divorce?" he yelled to the empty room. "I'm the one calling the shots!"

I let out a dry laugh.

To him, I wasn't even a person. I was just a beast of burden, and in the end, I wasn't even worth the price of the animal.

He pulled out his phone with a long face and dialed my number again and again.

My phone had probably been wiped and sold to a pawn shop days ago.

He was never going to get through.

Finally, driven mad by the automated voicemails, Jonathan started screaming voice memos into the chat.

"Emily! You have the guts to ask for a divorce, but you don't have the spine to face me?

"Stop playing hard to get! I'm not falling for it!

"Get your ass home right now! We are getting this divorce!

"Even if you're rotting in a grave, you better claw your way out and sign the official decree in front of me before you drop dead!"

Crash. The sound of shattering stone echoed through the living room.

Jonathan dropped his phone and rushed toward the sound.

Charlotte was standing by the display cabinet, looking the picture of innocence. At her feet lay a fractured, splintered bracelet.

"Oh my god, Jonathan. I'm so sorry!" she gasped, covering her mouth. "I just wanted to look at it, but it slipped right out of my hands!"

She did that on purpose. She absolutely did that on purpose.

I clenched my fists, the anger building up inside me until my whole body was trembling.

This bracelet is our family heirloom, intended specifically for the younger generation.

I gave it to Jonathan when we married, only for him to toss it aside disdainfully on the living room storage cabinet.

He called it "convenience," claiming he just wanted it within reach whenever he felt like wearing it.

With five generations of history behind it, that heirloom was flawless.

Charlotte couldn't have known its significance unless Jonathan told her. She broke it maliciously, targeting the one thing I held dear.

I glared at her, my eyes burning with a hatred so deep that I wanted to rip the skin from her bones.

But I was a ghost. I couldn't touch her.

I pinned my last, pathetic shred of hope on Jonathan. He knew what that bracelet meant to me. He knew its history.

But Jonathan only grabbed Charlotte's hands, checking her palms frantically. He let out a massive sigh of relief.

"Thank God you're not cut," he breathed. "Don't worry about it. It's just a cheap piece of junk. Ten of those bracelets wouldn't be worth a single scratch on your finger."

Without a backward glance at the ruins of my family's legacy, he led Charlotte up the stairs.

Over his shoulder, Charlotte shot the empty room a victorious smirk.

I tightened my grip and then let go, struggling to contain the rage. Eventually, I exhaled slowly.

He was right. I was exactly like that bracelet.

A cheap "thing" like me was never worthy of his notice.