This was it.
This was the moment I realized—I truly meant nothing to him.
I couldn’t scream anymore. My lungs were raw. I slid to the floor, tears falling silently, and braced for the end.
Seconds passed. Then—an explosion outside. The walls rattled. Gunshots echoed. Chaos.
The door burst open again.
A different man—masked, dressed in black, someone I didn’t recognize—rushed in.
“Hold still!” he shouted.
He knelt beside me and worked fast, unstrapping the bomb, hands steady but hurried. My breath hitched as the blinking stopped.
“You’re safe now,” he muttered. “Stay awake.”
I nodded weakly.
And then, everything faded.
My body ached, my throat was dry, and the sting in my chest was worse than any injury—because I remembered everything.
The bomb. The betrayal. The moment Troy ran… but not for me.
I was in a hospital. Alive. Barely. Saved by a stranger, abandoned by my husband.
The nurse said I’d been unconscious for almost a full day. I had cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious—at least not on the surface. She offered me water. I asked for silence.
There was no point in staying. I waited until the nurse left, then pulled the IV from my arm and stood, dizzy but determined. I grabbed the hospital robe tighter around my body and left the room.
In the hallway, I saw him.
Troy.
He was on a call, his face blank as ever. When he saw me, his eyes widened with surprise—but not relief.
“You’re awake,” he said simply. “Where are you going?”
“Somewhere that’s not here.”
He glanced at his watch. “I have to fly out. Handle a business mess. I’ll bring back something for you.”
That was it. No questions. No apology. No guilt. Just another excuse to run. I couldn’t believe this.
I nodded, even smiled faintly, but inside, something finally broke. Quietly, completely.
I left the hospital and went straight home. The house was exactly as I left it—cold, neat, unloved. I took my time gathering my things, moving slowly, deliberately. I didn’t cry. I’d run out of tears days ago.
Before leaving for the airport, I sent one last message.
To Bianca.
“Meet me.”
She replied within minutes, probably thinking I was coming to beg, to fight, to start another pitiful argument over Troy, but no.
I chose the café near the pier—the one with the wide windows and the sound of the waves crashing just beyond the glass. A place that once felt calming. Today, it just felt final.