“How are you?” His tone was gentle, but underneath it, I heard pain. “I heard what happened. Do you want to come with me, then?”
“Come… with you?” My voice was a whisper, hesitant.
“Yes. Divorce him. Leave that life. Be with me.” His words were steady, resolute. “I swear, Candice, no one will hurt you again.”
Tears pricked my eyes. My heart trembled. Could I? After decades of servitude, humiliation, betrayal—could I take his hand now?
“Yes,” I whispered finally. “Yes… I want that. Pick me up in four days.”
“Four days,” he promised. “I’ll come. And I’ll never let you go again.”
When the call ended, I clutched the phone to my chest, tears streaming. For the first time in years, I felt… hope.
But in the days that followed, not once did Oliver or Jackson or even Beatrice visit me. Not a single flower, not a word, not even a glance.
When I was finally discharged, I returned home to find the house littered with remnants of a party—empty glasses, food crumbs, decorations drooping. They had celebrated while I was dying.
I stepped over the mess, heading toward my room, when a voice snapped.
“Where the hell are you going?” Jackson.