Chapter 3

The chill from the bathroom tiles crept into my bones, slipping through the thin fabric of my clothes.

I had no idea how long I'd been sitting there, until my legs turned numb and the cramping pain in my stomach slowly faded into a hollow, dull ache.

My tears had dried up, leaving only cold, streaked trails on my face.

I leaned on the wall for support and slowly pushed myself to my feet.

The woman in the mirror still had swollen, red eyes. But deep beneath the lifeless ashes, something felt different.

It was like after the flames died, all that remained was a cold, hardened resolve.

Sensitive? Fragile? Overreacting?

Richard, so this was what you thought of me.

Fine then.

I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face again and again until the swelling faded a little, and my skin felt icy and numb.

Then I looked up at my reflection and gave myself a twisted, ugly smile.

Was this decent enough for you, Richard?

Would this make your mother happy?

I straightened my dress, took a deep breath, and pushed open the bathroom door.

The noise in the living room had quieted a bit. Most people were done eating and were chatting casually in small groups around the sofas.

Rachel was surrounded by Rebecca and a few relatives, showing off her bracelet with a grin.

Richard stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, talking on the phone. His profile was still as striking as ever, but that gentle, patient tone—I'd never heard it from him before.

No one noticed that I came out.

I walked straight over to the dining table and grabbed my bag. I kept my movements light, but the chair still scraped quietly against the floor.

Richard hung up, turned, and saw me. His brows furrowed out of habit. "Where are you going?"

"I'm heading home," I answered, my voice flat, not a single ripple of emotion.

He shot me a surprised look, sizing me up. "Are you serious? The party isn't over yet. How could you just leave?"

"I'm not feeling well, so I'm leaving," I said, glancing at Rachel in the center of the living room. My voice was loud enough for her to catch it. "Rachel, I'm not feeling well. I need to head out now. Happy birthday."

I didn't wait for her response, and I didn't give Richard a chance to say anything else. I turned and walked straight out.

"Hold it," Richard snapped, his voice laced with anger. He rushed over in a few quick steps and grabbed my wrist at the entryway. His grip was so hard that it actually hurt.

"Have you had enough of this drama?" he muttered, voice cold as ice. "You just had to pick today to mess things up for me, huh? What, because I forgot your birthday? I told you things at work have been insane lately."

I lifted my eyes to meet his, holding his gaze, calm and steady.

I took in the face I'd loved for eight years, from naive youth to grown manhood—every detail etched deep inside me.

But at this moment, he felt like a total stranger to me.

I didn't struggle. I just met his eyes with a hollow, almost numb stare, and asked softly, "Richard, if I told you I was dying, would you believe me?"

He visibly faltered, like my calm voice and those brutal words had stopped him in his tracks.

But the next moment, his impatience snapped back into place, and he even let out a mocking laugh. "Laura, can you stop being so childish? Threatening me with death? You really think that'll get to me?"

He let go of my hand like I was something filthy, his voice dripping with disappointment and annoyance. "I'm sick of you and your constant drama. Just leave if you want. Stop being an eyesore."

The word "eyesore" felt like the final dagger, sinking straight into the space where my heart used to be.

I watched Richard's back as he walked away, and without a trace of regret, I turned toward the lively center of the living room, where Rachel and Rebecca basked in the sound of laughter.

At that moment, even the last ache lingering in my stomach vanished.

Good. Once the heart gave up for good, the pain would just disappear.

I opened the door, letting the cold air rush in and brush across my face—it actually felt nice.

I pulled out my phone, found the contact of my lawyer, Marcus Carter, and sent a message.

[Mr. Carter, please go ahead and start drafting the divorce papers and sorting out the asset distribution we discussed. Also, I need you to prepare my will as soon as possible.]

I hit send.

Then, I put my phone away and walked into the night without looking back.

The warm lights of Davidson Estate faded behind me, and with them, the eight years of love and obsession were all buried in the cold night.