I was trudging toward the guest wing, suitcase dragging behind me, the sound echoing down the corridor like a quiet declaration of defeat. Everything I had left in the world rattled inside that bag.
He stopped mid-step.
Without turning fully around, he muttered to the chef, “Prepare two more plates. The ones Avery prefers. Set three places.”
That made me pause.
For half a second, I wondered if I’d imagined it. If there was regret buried somewhere beneath his arrogance. A hollow attempt at decency—setting a place for me at the table while his mistress occupied the Don’s bed.
The thought was almost laughable.
He couldn’t remember the date we first met. Couldn’t be bothered to unlock his phone for me. Yet now he expected rosemary lamb and a place setting to mean something?
I bit down hard on my teeth and kept walking.
The guest room door closed behind me with a soft click that landed heavier than any insult. The silence pressed in instantly, thick and accusing, as though the walls themselves understood I no longer belonged here.
I dropped my bag at the foot of the bed and knelt to unzip it.
The moment the zipper parted, my stomach sank.
Every piece of clothing inside had been destroyed.
Not torn in anger—cut cleanly, deliberately, shredded into neat strips. Whoever did it hadn’t acted on impulse. This was careful. Calculated. A message.
My chest hollowed out.
Then I noticed what remained.
Tucked deep into the lining—my passport. Plane tickets. Legal documents. Every paper I couldn’t afford to lose.
Untouched.
Protected.
I sank back onto my heels, disbelief and fury crashing together. I didn’t need to guess who’d done this.
Nina.
Only she would be petty enough to destroy what hurt while preserving what mattered. Only she would want me humiliated—but still able to leave, so she could claim victory without consequence.
There would be a reckoning later.
For now, I needed out.
I crouched by the bed, shoving the remaining salvageable items into my bag, when the door creaked open behind me.
Nina stepped inside.
She held a small black bottle between two fingers, swinging it casually as her eyes swept the room like she was inspecting property. Her nose wrinkled, disdain written clearly across her face—until her gaze landed on me.
If looks could kill, I would’ve been dust.