Blake Solis POV
I returned to the house the next evening. My heart felt like a hollow drum. I needed to gather a few things. I walked into the master bedroom. My clothes were gone. My personal items were gone. The room was sterile, empty of any trace of me.
The maid, Maria, hovered near the doorway. She avoided my gaze.
"Ma'am, your things… they were moved," Maria stammered. "To the storage room in the backyard. Miss Celine said… the master bedroom needed to be cleared for the new mistress."
I let out another quiet laugh. So, not even a proper goodbye. Not even a moment to pack my own things. They stripped me of everything, even the dignity of departure.
I turned away from Maria. I walked towards the backyard. The storage room was a cluttered mess. My belongings were tossed in a corner, an undignified pile. They treated my life like trash.
I knelt amidst the debris. I rummaged through the boxes. I looked for something specific. My great-grandmother's locket. It was the only thing truly mine. My mother had given it to me on my wedding day. She said it was a symbol of strength, of enduring love.
My fingers closed around the cold metal. I pulled it out from under a pile of old blankets. I clutched it in my hand. A small victory. A tiny piece of me they could not take.
I started to pick out a few clothes. A voice from the doorway stopped me.
"Mommy? What are you doing here?"
Bailey. My son. He stood in the doorway, blocking my exit. He looked like Courtney, but the way he stood — hands on his hips, head tilted — was Celine's pose. He mimicked her. He always did.
"I'm getting my things, Bailey," I said, my voice flat. I kept packing. I did not look at him.
"Those aren't your things," Bailey declared, his small voice sharp. "Auntie Celine said everything here belongs to Daddy. And everything Daddy has belongs to the Jordan family."
He walked further into the storage room. He deliberately stepped on my clothes. He crushed them under his small shoes.
"She said you're not a Jordan anymore. You can't take anything. Everything belongs to us."
My five-year-old son was already his father's soldier. But I hadn't come to fight him. I had come to say goodbye.
But I wasn't done with them. Not even close.
