Upstairs, I packed quickly. Everything I owned fit into one suitcase. Three years, and this was all I had. The only gifts Tristan had ever given me were things to keep me in my place—kitchenware, cleaning supplies. I left them all behind.
I called Cherry, my best friend. She answered on the fourth ring.
“I was wrong,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I gave up everything for him. I want out. I need out.”
Cherry sighed. “You should’ve left years ago.”
Minutes later, a new message came through:
Cherry: Flight booked. Three days. Be ready.
The dam broke. Three years of tears, of pain, of hoping for something that would never come. They all poured out.
In three days, I would be free.
For the first time in years, I felt a glimmer of hope.
Tristan didn’t come home that night. No text, no call. Nothing. After I refused to play housemaid and make soup for Saint Selene, he blocked my number like a petulant teenager. Classic. I sat in the cold silence, letting it sink in. This time, though, I didn’t feel the usual sting of rejection. I just felt… done. So freaking done.