Amelia
The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting stripes across the unmade bed. My head throbbed faintly from last night’s whiskey, but it wasn’t the alcohol that weighed me down. It was the text message from Richard, still glowing on my phone.
We need to talk. Meet me at the office at noon. It’s about the future—with Cindy.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the coolness of the hardwood floor grounding me as my mind churned. The message felt more like a command than a request, as if Richard still thought he held all the cards.
For years, I had been the polished, supportive wife, standing quietly by his side as he built his empire. Now, everything was crumbling, and Richard didn’t seem to care that I was caught in the wreckage.
No more.
I stood and walked to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me—disheveled, tired, depressed, but with a spark of determination. I couldn’t let him see how much this was breaking me.
I showered, dressed in a sleek black dress that hugged my curves but exuded confidence, and pulled my hair into a neat chignon. If Richard wanted to talk about the future, I’d show him exactly what he was losing.
The towering glass facade of Montgomery Industries glinted in the midday sun as I stepped out of the car. My heels clicked against the polished floors of the lobby, each step steady despite the storm brewing inside me.
When I reached Richard’s office, his assistant gave me a tight smile, her eyes darting away quickly as if she knew more than she let on.
“He’s expecting you,” she said, motioning toward the door.
I walked in without knocking. Richard stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette sharp against the city skyline. He turned as I entered, and for a moment, there was something in his expression—regret, maybe?—before it disappeared, replaced by his usual composed facade.
“You're late,” He said.
“I wasn't aware I was supposed to stick to the time.” I fired back.
“Amelia,” he said, his voice calm, measured. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t come for you,” I said, crossing my arms. “I came for clarity.”
He sighed and gestured toward the sleek leather chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit. This doesn’t have to be hostile.”
“I’ll stand,” I replied curtly.
Richard hesitated but nodded, as though he expected nothing less.
“I wanted to talk about how we move forward,” he began. “With everything out in the open now, it’s important to establish boundaries—for Cindy, for the child, and for us.”
The casual way he spoke, as though we were negotiating a business deal, made my blood boil.
“Boundaries?” I echoed, my voice rising. “You had no problem crossing them when you decided to sleep with her, Richard.”
He flinched but recovered quickly. “I made a mistake. But it doesn’t change the fact that this child will need stability. Cindy needs support—”
“And what about me?” I interrupted. “Do I not need stability? Do I not deserve support after everything you’ve put me through?”
Richard’s jaw tightened, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I’m trying to make this right, Amelia .”
“Right?” I laughed bitterly. “You think dragging me into this mess and expecting me to play along makes it right?”
“I never wanted this to happen,” he said, his voice softening. “But it’s happened, and we have to deal with it.”
“No, Richard,” I said, stepping closer. “You have to deal with it. I’m done cleaning up your messes and pretending everything is fine. I won’t be a part of this charade anymore.”
His eyes narrowed. “So, what? You’re just going to walk away?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “I deserve better than this—better than you.”
For the first time, Richard looked genuinely shaken. “Amelia , don’t do this. We can work through it. You’re my wife—”
“Was,” I corrected. “I was your wife. You made your choice the moment you brought her into our lives.”
The silence between us was deafening as I turned and walked toward the door. My hand trembled as I reached for the handle, but I refused to let him see it.
“Amelia,” Richard called after me, his voice tinged with desperation.
I paused but didn’t look back.
“I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” I said to him and then stepped out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind me.
Back in the car, I exhaled shakily, the weight of the confrontation finally hitting me. My phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number.
You don’t know me, but I’d like to talk. It’s about Montgomery Industries and your future.It was signed: Nicholas de vincente.
For the first time in days, I felt a flicker of something other than anger or sadness. It was curiosity.
