That was when something inside me shifted slightly, like the first crack forming in glass that had been under pressure for far too long.
Two days after the burial, I spent the morning handling arrangements he claimed were too exhausting, and by the time I returned home, I was completely drained both physically and emotionally.
When I opened the door and saw my belongings thrown into suitcases near the entrance, I froze in confusion, trying to understand what I was looking at.
Then I heard the soft clink of glass and looked up to see Connor descending the staircase with a champagne flute in his hand, his expression relaxed and disturbingly pleased. “Olivia, you are back,” he said casually, as if nothing unusual had happened, and that calm tone sent a chill through me.
“What is this?” I asked, my voice barely steady as I gestured toward the suitcases scattered across the floor.
He took a slow sip of champagne before answering, “This is the end, because my father is gone and I am finally free to move on with my life.”
I felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath me, and I tried to remind him of our marriage, of everything we had been through together over the past decade.