The image on the glowing screen felt like an icy drop of water hitting an open flame, but I did not scream, nor did I shed a single tear. I stared at the photo of the young waitress from the small restaurant—the girl Ethan had abandoned twelve years of history for—stepping over the marble threshold of Willow Creek. She carried a single designer suitcase, her posture rigid yet triumphant, like a conqueror entering a fallen kingdom.
I turned off the phone screen, resting my head against the leather seat of the taxi as the green wall of the forest began to swallow the highway. My mind drifted back to the small apartment we used to rent in the eastern district, where the roof leaked every time it rained and we had to share a single bowl of instant noodles. In those days, Ethan would hold my hands to warm them, swearing that every hardship was just a chapter in a story that would end in splendor.
When the taxi finally pulled up the gravel driveway of the Blue Ridge estate, the silence of the woods wrapped around me like a heavy velvet blanket. The house was exactly as I had left it years ago: rustic, solid, and completely untainted by the high-society expectations that had slowly poisoned my marriage. I dragged my suitcases up the porch steps, turned the heavy iron key in the lock, and stepped inside.
For three days, I didn’t turn on the television, nor did I check the news. I spent my mornings pulling weeds in the overgrown garden beds, burying my hands deep into the damp earth until my fingernails were dark with soil. Physical labor was the only thing that kept the phantom ache in my chest from turning into a paralyzing storm, forcing me to focus on the tangible reality of the earth rather than the ghost of a dead romance.
On the fourth morning, the quiet solitude was shattered by the sharp sound of tires grinding against the gravel driveway outside. I stood near the kitchen window, holding a hot mug of black coffee, and watched as a sleek black sedan came to a sudden halt near the porch. The driver’s side door flew open, and Ethan stepped out into the crisp autumn air, looking disheveled in a way I had never seen in twelve years.
His custom suit was rumpled, his tie was loosened at the collar, and dark, heavy shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes. He didn’t look like the triumphant tycoon who had casually asked for a divorce in the back of a Maybach; he looked like a man who had suddenly realized the floor beneath his feet was entirely hollow. He marched up the porch steps, his heavy footsteps echoing across the wooden planks before he slammed his fist against the front door.
I took a slow sip of my coffee, set the porcelain mug down on the wooden counter, and walked calmly to the door. When I pulled it open, the cold wind rushed into the foyer, bringing with it the bitter scent of rain and the undeniable aroma of his mounting desperation. Ethan stood there, his chest heaving as his sharp, dark eyes swept over my simple sweater, my tied-back hair, and the serene expression I wore like armor.
“Why haven’t you been answering your phone?” Ethan demanded, his voice gravelly and tight with unspoken panic. “The press is tearing the company apart, Amelia. The board is asking questions about the sixty percent cash liquidation, and the media is running stories about us every single hour.”
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms as I looked at him without a trace of heat or resentment. “We filed the papers, Ethan,” I said softly, every word measured and even. “My financial demands were clear, and you signed the preliminary agreement. What happens to your board and your reputation is no longer my concern.”
Ethan took a step forward, his hand reaching out to grab the edge of the door as if to prevent me from closing it on his face. “She’s at the house, Amelia,” he muttered, dropping his voice as if someone might be listening in the quiet woods. “She moved into the master bedroom two days ago, and she brought her entire family to stay in the guest wing. She’s already changing the furniture.”
I raised an eyebrow, a small, cold smile touching the corners of my lips as I looked into the eyes of the man I had once given my youth to. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I asked him gently. “You replaced me, Ethan. You gave her the world you promised me—it’s only fitting she takes the house, too.”
He opened his mouth to reply, his throat working as he tried to find the words to justify the nightmare he had brought upon himself. But before he could speak, his phone began to ring loudly from his jacket pocket, the ringtone piercing the heavy silence of the porch. He pulled the device out, his face turning entirely pale as he stared at the caller ID on the screen.
Want to know who was calling Ethan’s phone in that exact moment? Turn to the next page to find out…
