Every folded onesie. Every pacifier. Every soft animal blanket. Every memory I thought we would build was packed into boxes. And then, I added the things Denver gave me—the anniversary necklaces, the journals, even the framed photo of us on our honeymoon in Italy where he whispered, “You’re my everything.”
All lies.
I carried the boxes out to the fire pit behind the house, lit a match, and watched the past burn.
Ash curled up into the air like ghosts escaping. As I stood there, the wind catching my hair, I remembered the first time I met Denver.
Five years ago.
It was the night I was told I was the rightful heiress to the Montera Group. Everything I knew about my life had unraveled in a single breath. But Denver was there. Calm, warm, persuasive. My family said it was fate—he was the son of a partner corporation, a perfect face for the merger.
And me? I was foolishly in love. At first sight, even. He made me feel seen.
At least in the beginning. But love from a man like Denver came with conditions. Expectations. Manipulation.
And betrayal.
After the flames died down, I returned inside to clean. I opened Denver’s closet to arrange his things, still like a perfect wife.