Faith Frazier POV:
"No one important."
Those two words, spoken with such cold indifference, twisted in my gut like a knife. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my lips. I looked at Dale, then at Jetta, and a stark realization hit me: I was nothing to him. A stranger.
Jetta, sensing victory, beamed. Her eyes, bright with a newfound possessiveness, flickered with triumph as she tiptoed, her soft lips brushing against Dale' s jawline. He didn't pull away. He just stood there, letting her mark her territory. My blood ran cold. The world spiraled around me, and I felt myself falling, falling into a black abyss.
I don't remember how I got downstairs or how I found myself back in our apartment. My phone buzzed again. It was Dale. His voice was hoarse, tinged with a nervous edge. "Did you… see anything?" he asked, the hesitation in his tone a clear admission of guilt.
"Are you afraid I did?" I retorted, the words burning my throat. Tears welled up, salty and bitter, tracing paths down my face. I couldn't understand. If he cared enough to ask, why did he betray me?
He let out a relieved sigh. "Look, just come back up, okay? Let's talk." His voice was light, almost cheerful.
"There's nothing left to talk about," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion, and hung up. I ignored his outraged shouts from the other end.
The task of erasing a decade of my life was monumental. I packed two large suitcases, filled with all the expensive gifts Dale had showered on me – the designer clothes, the jewelry, the limited-edition art pieces. Valuables that once symbolized his love now felt like shackles. I donated everything to a local charity, shedding the physical manifestations of a love that had become a gilded cage.
Then I walked to the glass cabinet. My hand trembled as I reached for the stack of airline tickets. The first one, faded and yellowed, brought a ghost of a smile to my lips. It was from our very first date, a weekend trip to Paris. He had kept it, a memento of new beginnings. The tenth, a surprise anniversary trip to Venice, where he proposed a picnic under the Rialto Bridge. The four-hundred-and-fiftieth – a picture of us, laughing, hand-in-hand, on a beach in Bali.
I hadn't forgotten anything. Every memory, every shared laugh, every tender moment was seared into my mind. A decade of love, etched into my very soul, now had to be ripped out, piece by agonizing piece.
I dropped the tickets, each one a testament to our history, into the fireplace. A match flared, igniting the corners of the paper. The flames danced, consuming the fragile remnants of our past. The warmth they generated was fleeting, quickly replaced by a chilling emptiness. I watched as the last embers died, leaving behind only ashes, a faint outline of city names still visible on the charred fragments.
A gaping void opened in my chest. My throat constricted, choked by a thousand untold sorrows. I couldn't speak, couldn't scream, couldn't cry. My heart was a barren wasteland, emptied of all emotion.
This was it. We were done. No debts, no lingering ties. Just ashes.
