"Why would you force her like that?" Iris's voice cut through the heavy silence, filled with genuine concern.
Amber didn't stay to hear Calvin's reply. She bent down to wipe the blood from the floor, ignoring the sharp sting in her hand. Straightening up, she clutched the cake tightly in one hand and turned to leave, her movements robotic, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I still need to get my wound treated, so I won't disturb everyone anymore."
Her words reached Calvin, soft and trembling, laced with the kind of pain that made even the air seem heavier. For a brief moment, Calvin frowned, unsure of what exactly she had to feel so aggrieved about. Was this another act, a show to earn his sympathy?
All this over a piece of cake? he thought.
Amber didn't wait for further humiliation. On her way out, she dumped the uneaten cake into a trash bin. The act felt like a small victory, though it did little to ease the sting of her humiliation.
Back at home, the mansion was silent. Florence greeted her hesitantly, sensing the storm brewing in Amber's expression. Amber walked past her without a word, heading straight to the kitchen.
The vegetables she had painstakingly prepped for their anniversary dinner were still waiting on the counter. With methodical precision, she began packing everything back into their containers, her movements eerily calm.
"Mrs. Amber, should I finish preparing dinner?" Florence asked tentatively.
Amber didn't answer right away. She stared at the ingredients, her fingers brushing the cool surface of the cutting board. Finally, she shook her head.
"No, Florence. There's no need."
Florence nodded, sensing it was best not to press.
Upstairs, Amber opened her wardrobe and pulled out three large cardboard boxes. She placed them on the bed, her mind clear for the first time in weeks. She wasn't just packing her belongings—she was erasing every trace of herself from this house.
One by one, memories were pulled from their hiding places.
The beautifully bound notebooks filled with unsent love letters to Calvin—trashed. Pages upon pages of words written in hope, in yearning, in heartbreak.
The adhesive bandages Calvin had grabbed for her during their college military training—meticulously preserved for years but never truly used—trashed.