Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
The pan hisses gently when I crack the eggs in. The smell of melting butter and browning bread fills the kitchen, warm and comforting. I stir the wooden spoon in slow circles, letting myself enjoy the small, ordinary act of cooking for myself in this beautiful, quiet space that so quickly feels a little less like someone else’s home and more like mine.
When it’s ready, I don’t bother carrying it to the table. I hop onto the wide marble counter and eat right there with my legs swinging gently. The first bite of the eggs makes my eyes sting. God. I nearly cry. I can’t remember the last time a meal tasted like this—like something made with care, something I actually wanted. Not eaten in silence while someone barked orders into a phone. Just mine.
I eat slowly, savoring every creamy bite of egg, the crispy edges of the toast, the bright sweetness of the berries bursting between my teeth. Tears blur my vision for a moment, and I blink them back hard, refusing to let them fall. This is ridiculous. It’s only breakfast. But it feels bigger than that. It feels more like the first real breath I’ve taken in four years.
After I finish, I stay perched on the counter for a while longer, empty plate next to me, staring out at the glittering city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t want to go back to that house and face what it still represents.
So, I procrastinate.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through design ideas—soft throw pillows in deep jewel tones, cozy cashmere blankets, more fresh flowers, simple plates and vases that would warm up the sleek, dark penthouse without changing it too much. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable in his own home. I just want to make it feel a little more like somewhere I could finally call my home.
I shop online for a little bit and place a few small orders, biting my lip as I add things to the cart. Nothing crazy. Just gentle touches. When I finally check the time, reality settles back in. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to go back and get my things.
Close that terrible chapter for good.
I take the private elevator down, press the button with the little hat symbol, and the driver is waiting exactly as Ricci said he would be in an idling, gleaming black SUV by the elevator. He greets me with quiet respect and holds the door open. I slide into the back seat, and we pull out into the bright afternoon light.
As we leave the city behind, the tall glass buildings give way to familiar winding roads lined with tall cypress trees. The farther we drive, the heavier the air feels. Even before the gates appear, I can already sense the coldness waiting for me. The old estate always carried a chill that had nothing to do with temperature. It seeped into your bones and stayed there.
By now, everyone will have heard. The news spreads fast in our world—faster than blood on a marble floor. I married the new boss barely five seconds after my husband was put in the ground. The gossip will be vicious. I can almost hear the whispers already: cold, heartless, calculating bitch. Jumping from one powerful man to the next, before the last one is even cold. They’ll say I was waiting for Salvatore to die. They’ll call me a whore who traded up the moment she could.
I stare out the tinted window and feel… nothing. No shame. No guilt. I don’t give a damn what they think. They can talk until their tongues fall out. The same people who watched Salvatore leave me with nothing, not a single dime, not one asset in my name, didn’t lift a finger to help me. Not one of them cared when I was trapped. In fact, they tried to take advantage of me. So let them judge. Their opinions mean less than the dirt under my shoes.
I feel genuinely relieved to be heading back there for the last time. This trip is about closing the door to that unhappy part of my life for good. Leaving that miserable chapter behind and never looking back.
The familiar wrought-iron gates swing open automatically, heavy and slow, like they always have, and the car turns onto the long driveway. Hopefully, for the last time in my life, I see the sprawling stone mansion come into view. The house looks the same—grand, cold, imposing—but it feels different now. It looks smaller somehow. Or maybe I’m just bigger inside myself.
I step out of the car and walk towards the front door. The maids are already waiting just inside the grand foyer. Their faces are carefully neutral, but I catch the glances they exchange. As if they have been instructed not to leave me alone, silently they follow me upstairs. They stand just behind the door as I move through the rooms I used to live in and feel almost nothing. No nostalgia. Just a quiet determination to leave as soon as possible.