Denver looked me in the eye, with the coldest look I had ever seen on his face. “You’re nothing compared to your Patricia. She’s elegant, composed. And you? You’re just a bitter mess.”
The room went silent. The silence after betrayal is different. It’s heavier. More permanent. He didn’t even bother checking up on me.
I am his wife! But none of it matters now.
That night, I cried myself to sleep. The scratch on my cheek throbbed, but the pain in my chest hurt far worse.
The morning after I made up my mind, Denver asked me to go with him to shop for the upcoming gala event. I said yes for the last time.
We walked into the boutique together, his hand resting lightly on my lower back like he always did in public—as if he actually cared. As if he hadn’t spent the night tangled in someone else's arms.
While he picked out suits and luxury items to donate, I trailed behind, silent, detached. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Rain.
“Who are you texting?” Denver asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. He reached for my phone without thinking.
I held it tighter, pulling it away. “Do you really need to read private conversations between girls?” I said coolly, arching a brow.
His jaw clenched, but he backed off. “Enough with the phone. We’re heading home soon.”
Once we returned to the estate, Denver made up some excuse about needing to meet someone.
As soon as the door closed behind him, I moved quickly. I went to the study, opened the safe behind the bookshelf, and pulled out the hospital’s miscarriage report—the one no one ever bothered to mourn with me.
I placed it in an envelope, along with the signed divorce agreement. And the last thing: our wedding ring.
After sealing the envelope, I called the delivery guy to send it as a gift to Denver during the gala event.
Then, I took one last walk through the estate. I wiped down every surface I touched. Deleted my fingerprint from the smart lock. Left the keys on the dining table—until every trace of my presence was gone.
