As the nausea subsided, a dull ache throbbed in my stomach. I couldn’t even remember when this pain first began. During the worst days, I’d drink cold water just to numb it.
Dinner ended in suffocating silence. I was about to retreat upstairs to my old room when Irene stepped in front of me, her smile sweet but her eyes cutting.
Mrs. Bolton followed, handing me a document with an air of cool finality. “Amelia, let’s be realistic. Your current situation is no longer compatible with Gilbert’s status. He’s a director in the group now, and your criminal record is... unfortunate. It’s unbecoming. This is a divorce agreement. If you sign it, we’ll still help you get back on your feet.”
The words sliced through me like shards of ice. Everything they had—the life they lived now—was built on what once belonged to me. And now they wanted me to quietly disappear, as though I had never existed.
From the moment I stepped out of that prison, not one of them had truly cared about me. They didn’t ask how I survived or even if I was okay. I was the innocent one in all of this, but to them, I was just a stain on their perfect image.
Gilbert, seated at the table, glanced briefly at the document. His expression remained unreadable as he spoke. “I don’t agree to divorce.”
Mrs. Bolton and Irene froze, their shock evident.
“My position in the group is still precarious,” he explained casually. “If I divorce now, it could cause unnecessary complications.”
I let out a bitter laugh. How naive of me to think, even for a second, that he might harbor a shred of guilt, a flicker of care for me. He wasn’t fighting for me—he was protecting his own image, his future.
They didn’t care about me. Not my pain, not my survival, not my existence. All they cared about was themselves, their plans, their perfect little world.
Suddenly, I felt drained, as though my body and soul had been hollowed out. Without a word, I turned and headed for the stairs.
Before I could take a step, Irene’s sickly-sweet voice stopped me again. “Amelia, your room is downstairs now.”
She pointed toward a small, inconspicuous door tucked into the corner of the villa. It was a storage room once—a place for forgotten things.
This villa had been a gift from my father, my name etched into the property deed. But since my imprisonment, Gilbert had taken over everything. Now, even my most basic right to a room was stripped from me.