CHAPTER 050: Showtime
I’m at Ryan’s gate.
I lean on the horn, letting the sound echo off the high walls. A place that used to be home. Used to be familiar. Used to be… safe. And now? Just a twisted reminder of everything I’d rather forget.
I’m still sitting there, waiting, when it hits me: the gate doesn’t automatically open. It’s the first time I’ve ever sat here without the smooth, silent glide of that gate making way for me, like it did every other time I’d pull up. Every time… before I left Ryan. Before I left all of this.
Of course, the electric tag needed for the gate to open is glued to my Bentley, the one I left with Ryan on my way out of his life. And the gate’s sensor doesn’t recognize Luke’s car.
I honk again.
A crackle fills the silence, and a muffled voice cuts through. “Hello? Could you… um, could you pull down the window, ma’am? Look into the camera?”
I tug the window down with a deliberate slowness, staring straight into the tiny, blinking camera above the intercom, daring it to deny me. I don’t say a word. Just a steely stare, lips pressed tight.
“Uh, Mrs. O’Brien?” The guard’s voice–Grant–softens, suddenly aware. “Sorry, Mrs. O’Brien! I didn’t recognize–well, I mean… I’m opening the gate now!”
With a loud click, the gates begin to part, and I feel a strange satisfaction watching them give way to me. I ease Luke’s Aston Martin forward, through the gates, up the long drive.
The house is as pristine as always. I park the car, and for a moment, I just sit there. My fingers drum the wheel, my heart hammering in my chest. It’s strange, feeling like a stranger in a place that was supposed to be mine. A place that is mine. But then I shake it off, step out of the car, and grab my bag. I’ve got a mission.
Inside, I’m hit by the too–familiar scent of everything expensive–polished wood, imported leather, and that damn cologne Ryan used to practically bathe in. I can almost taste the memories, some sweet and others… bitter.
My heels click on the marble floor as I head straight for the stairs, my eyes scanning everything, catching glimpses of things I once treasured, reminders of a life I’d left. But I’m not here to reminisce. Not really. I’m here for something else.
I reach the master bedroom.
I can still see them. In my mind, there’s Ryan with that smirk, his hands on Emily’s waist. I remember walking in on them–Emily’s triumphant sneer, Ryan’s stupidly smug look, like he’d done something clever. And me? Too shocked to move. And then, too angry to care.
stand there, eyeing the bed with a look I’d probably reserve for roadkill. I want to strip every fiber of it, every single damn thread. I reach for the sheets, the ones tainted with their betrayal, and pull them off with a fierce yank.
“Disgusting,” I mutter, tossing them onto the floor. As if I want any reminder of what’s been happening in this room. I give the bed a hard stare. Though I do like this bed…
1/3
CHAPTER 650 Shofime
+25 BONUS
I laugh to myself, half–mad, shaking my head. “You idiots don’t deserve a Texas king, but I do.”
The bed stays. I’m reclaiming it.
One by one, I grab the pillows, the blankets, stripping the bed bare, tossing everything into the laundry basket. I imagine the satisfaction of hurling it all into a bonfire later, watching their memories turn to ash. And honestly? That thought keeps me going.
When I finally turn to the closet, I throw open the doors, faced with row upon row of Ryan’s designer shirts, his tailored suits. Then there’s the mess of Emily’s clothes too, spilling into my side. My side.
“Oh, Emily, you’ve made yourself at home, haven’t you?” I sneer, grabbing at her things without mercy. Into the basket goes her silk blouse, the one with the ridiculous ruffles. Her tiny dresses, her neon pumps–all of it, piling up, like I’m purging the very air she’s polluted.
As I fling another dress onto the pile, my phone rings. I glance at the screen, trained by experience not to answer before knowing who it is. And when I see Luke’s name pop up, a warm thrill runs through me. A smile stretches across my lips, more natural than anything I’ve felt in a long time.
I hit answer, propping the phone between my ear and shoulder as I resume my rampage.
“Hi, runaway girlfriend,” Luke says,
“Hi, left–behind boyfriend,” I reply, grinning as I yank a hideous purple scarf off its hanger.
“Was just checking to see if you’d changed your mind about leaving.”
“Nope.” I toss Ryan’s ties into the growing mess. “Found the perfect place. And guess what? It’s free.”
“Free?”
“Mm–hmm.” I smirk, imagining his look of confusion. “Let’s just say it has some… emotional value.”
“Emotional value, huh?” He laughs. “You better tell me all about it later. Promise?”
“Promise,” I say, shaking out another shirt and adding it to the chaos. “Now let me go. I’ve got a lot to do here.”
“Alright. I’ll miss you,” he says. “And don’t forget the resume stuff.”
“I won’t. Talk soon.” I end the call, smiling harder than can help. It’s strange how someone’s voice can lift you like that. And right now, I feel like I could take on the world.
When the closet is sufficiently ravaged, I pick up the laundry basket, which is now overflowing with the first batch of clothes, sheets, and every trace of Ryan and Emily that I could grab. I start down the stairs, my steps lighter than I’d expected, almost as if every item I’ve chucked out has lifted a weight off my shoulders.
The grill machine sits outside, one of Ryan’s pride and joys, and as I approach it, I can’t resist the grin spreading across my face. I pop it open, ready to set everything on fire.
Strange. Why does today feel like the best day of my life?
After a long day of dumping Ryan and Emily’s things by the grill and lighting a match on anything
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CHAPTER 090 Showtime
flammable, I’m finally out of the shower, feeling scrubbed clean of their existence. My skin is prickling tingling, refreshed, and I slip into my nightgown. It’s soft, thin, whispering against my skin as I move, but there’s still an edge of adrenaline beneath the surface, humming through me. This day it’s like I can finally breathe. And there’s so much more to come.
And then, of course, I hear it–the unmistakable purr of Ryan’s Rolls Royce. There’s another softer hum trailing behind it. The Bentley. I laugh to myself as I hear them parking, shutting off the engines, their muffled voices outside. Perfect.
Showtime,
