Addison Fitzpatrick POV:
The notification was from Jodi Dawson. A fresh post on her public profile. My thumb hovered over the screen, hesitant, but a morbid curiosity, a need to inflict more pain on myself, pushed me to open it.
There it was. A picture of a perfectly arranged breakfast plate. Two fluffy blueberry pancakes, artfully drizzled with maple syrup, beside a steaming cup of coffee. The caption read: Morning bliss with my favorite person. He knows just how to start my day. #Blessed #KadeAndJodi #Love.
My eyes stared at the plate, specifically at the pancakes. Blueberry. Fluffy. This wasn't just a breakfast. It was the breakfast. Kade's blueberry pancakes. The ones he'd learned to make specifically for me, after I'd casually mentioned my childhood love for them. He' d practiced for weeks, burning several batches, before finally perfecting them. He had promised me then, his eyes earnest, that they were "ours." My special treat. My secret comfort food, just from him.
"This is just for you, Addy," he' d whispered, pressing a kiss to my temple. "No one else gets Kade Dalton' s special pancakes."
The memory was a sharp, piercing pain. He had cooked them for her. For Jodi. The same pancakes, the same secret recipe, now paraded on social media, a testament to his betrayal. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth, making my stomach churn.
I slammed the phone face down on the table, the image burned into my mind. A strangled sob escaped me, followed by another. The tears came, hot and furious, blurring the edges of the familiar kitchen.
Just then, Maria, our housekeeper, walked in, her face etched with concern. She was carefully sweeping up a pile of ceramic shards and dried, sticky syrup from the floor. The remnants of my champagne flute from last night, and the half-eaten plate of blueberry pancakes I had impulsively made for myself after overhearing Kade's conversation. The sheer rage and devastation after that call had prompted me to smash the plate Kade had given me years ago, a delicate ceramic with an etched 'K' and 'A'. I' d thrown the pancakes against the wall, a childish, desperate act of defiance.
"Senorita Addison, are you alright?" Maria asked softly, her eyes full of pity. "What happened here?"
I shook my head, unable to speak, pointing vaguely at the mess. "Just… trash it, Maria. All of it."
Her gaze lingered on a small, fractured piece of ceramic. "This was a gift from young Master Kade, wasn't it?"
"It doesn't matter," I choked out, my voice hoarse. "It's broken. Just throw it away."
A fierce, cold resolve began to solidify within me. If he could discard me so easily, I could discard him. I pushed myself up from the table. My room. My life. It needed to be purged.
I started with my desk, systematically gathering every trinket, every photo frame, every silly little gift Kade had ever given me. A small, handcrafted wooden box. A plush toy from a carnival we' d won. A framed picture of us, smiling, arms around each other, from our high school graduation. Each item, once a symbol of affection, now felt tainted, a hollow lie. His gifts weren't given out of love or genuine care, but tossed my way like crumbs from his table, just as he had tossed me aside now.
He hadn't contacted me. Not a call, not a text. No apology, no explanation. Just that cold, transactional message last night, followed by public displays of affection for Jodi. He was utterly consumed by his new, strategic relationship, completely oblivious to the wreckage he left behind. The gestures he once reserved for me, the special pancakes, the tender touches, were now carelessly bestowed upon her.
My hands trembled as I picked up a silver locket he had given me for my eighteenth birthday. Inside, a tiny photo of us. My fingers recoiled, as if the metal had burned me. It wasn't silver; it was a lie, a symbol of deceit. Every happy memory associated with these objects now felt poisoned, twisted. How could I ever look at them again without seeing his betrayal?
My mother entered the room, her brow furrowed. "Addison? What are you doing, honey? You look like you're cleaning out a hurricane."
"Just... decluttering, Mom," I said, my voice deliberately flat. I didn't want her pity. I didn't want her questions. "I need a clear space. A fresh start. No distractions."
She paused, her gaze sweeping over the growing pile of Kade's discarded gifts. Her eyes softened, filled with a knowing sadness. "Is this about Kade?"
I picked up the last item, a small, worn coding textbook he' d lent me years ago, filled with his scribbled notes beside mine. I tossed it onto the pile with a satisfying thud. "Kade?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Kade is… irrelevant. He's just a neighbor."
My mother' s eyes widened slightly, but she didn' t press. She knew me well enough to understand that when I put up that wall, it meant I wasn't ready to talk.
I packed all the items into a large cardboard box. Dragging it out of my room and down the stairs, I felt a strange, conflicting sense of lightness. It was a physical release, a symbolic severing of ties. But underneath, the wound still throbbed.
I knew I needed more than just a clean room. I needed new air, new faces, new everything. I needed to escape this city, this house, this suffocating history. I needed to be somewhere so far away, so different, that the ghost of Kade Dalton couldn' t follow. I needed a place where I could rebuild myself, brick by painful brick, without his shadow looming over me.
