To cope, I threw myself into my work. Designing ceremonial gowns for the upcoming pack event gave me purpose and distraction during daylight hours. But when evening fell, I resumed sorting through what remained of our life, silently grieving as I filled box after box, often crying until my emotions dulled into numbness.
Eventually, I stripped the home of every trace of warmth. I swapped out the furnishings I’d once selected with such care for sterile, modern replacements—monochrome, clean lines, cold. The house now looked like it did the first day I stepped inside, before it had become mine. Or rather, before I fooled myself into believing it was.
The night before I was set to leave, I hovered over my phone, tempted to call Isaac just once more. I didn’t know if I was seeking closure or simply desperate for him to ask me to stay.
I dialed.
Each time, he declined.
Then finally, a message arrived: Unless you admit your mistake and apologize to Candice, there’s nothing more to talk about.
I stared at the words for a long moment. A bitter smile curved my lips. Even now, after all that had transpired, he still pinned the blame solely on me. He hadn’t once asked for my explanation, never gave me the chance to defend myself. Seven years, and it all amounted to nothing in his eyes.
If that’s where we stood, then there was truly nothing left to say.
At dawn, I zipped up my suitcase and walked out of the house that had once symbolized our shared dreams. Surprisingly, as I closed the door behind me, I felt a calm wash over me. Not sadness, not regret—just a quiet, steady sense of peace.
