Alaia Dawson POV:
The city lights smeared past the taxi window, a blur of color against the black velvet of night. My reflection was a pale ghost, a stranger with hollowed eyes.
The driver, a talkative human, tried to make small talk about the weather. I stared out the window, my silence a wall he couldn't breach.
My hand rested on my stomach. An empty, aching space.
The taxi turned through the grand iron gates of the Montgomery estate, gliding down the long, tree-lined drive. It stopped before the house, a stone fortress that loomed against the night sky.
For two years, I had called this place home. Tonight, it felt like a prison.
I paid the driver and stepped out into the cold wind, my worn suitcase in hand.
The heavy oak door swung open into a brightly lit, cavernous hall. It was silent. Empty. Only my footsteps echoed on the polished marble.
I didn't go upstairs to the master suite. I went to our bedroom. My bedroom.
From the back of my closet, I pulled out a sleek, forgotten folder. Inside was a document I had prepared months ago, a lifeline I never had the courage to use.
A divorce agreement.
At the bottom, I signed my name. Alaia Dawson. Each letter was a deliberate, forceful stroke.
Then, I packed.
I took only what was truly mine. A few sets of clothes. A small, worn wooden box containing my mother's locket. My research notes from my time at Silverwood Academy, hidden under a false bottom in my suitcase.
The jewels, the designer gowns, the life of a Montgomery Archon's wife—I left it all.
The sound of an engine growling up the driveway announced his return.
I went downstairs and waited on the edge of a cold leather sofa in the grand living room, the signed document placed squarely in the center of the coffee table.
Barron strode in, bringing the scent of expensive liquor and a perfume that wasn't mine. Erica's scent.
He stopped when he saw me, a frown creasing his perfect face. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be in the hospital? What game is this?"
Before I could answer, he loosened his tie, his voice dripping with a familiar, weary disdain. "Alaia, I'm tired of this. Let's just get it over with. Sign the papers, and we can both move on."
I lifted my gaze, meeting his cold eyes. I pushed the folder across the table toward him.
"Fine," I said, my voice steady. "I already have."
His bored expression froze. He picked up the document. His eyes scanned the title, "Marriage Dissolution Agreement," then flickered to the last page, to my signature. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face before it hardened into a deeper, more cutting scorn.
"So well-prepared," he sneered, dropping the papers as if they were contaminated. "You think this little reverse psychology stunt will work?"
"This isn't a stunt," I said calmly. "I'm serious."
"What do you want?" He leaned back, his eyes raking over me like I was an item up for auction. "More money? The latest collection from some designer?"
I shook my head. "I want nothing. The agreement is clear. I waive all rights to any division of assets."
For the first time, his mask of arrogance slipped. Confusion warred with his pride.
He let out a cold laugh, picking up the document again. "Since you're so eager, fine. I'll have Adrian handle the details."
He thought I was bluffing. He thought I would come crawling back, begging him to stay.
I stood and picked up my suitcase. "Good. Goodbye, Archon Montgomery."
I turned and walked toward the door, not looking back.
"Stop!" His voice was a whip crack, laced with the anger of a master whose pet had just disobeyed. "What do you think you're doing? It's the middle of the night. Where will you go?"
I paused at the threshold, but didn't turn. "Anywhere but here."
"You better think this through," he snarled. "Without the Montgomery name, you are nothing."
I pulled the heavy door open. The cold night air rushed in, a baptism.
"Maybe," I said softly, more to myself than to him. "But at least I'll be myself."
I didn't wait for his reply. I stepped into the darkness, pulling the door shut behind me, leaving him standing in the too-bright, empty hall, his face a mask of disbelief.
He still thought it was a performance.
He had no idea the show was finally over.
