“What documents are you having prepared that supposedly need my signature? Another one of your tricks?” Nathaniel’s voice was steady, but the venom behind it made me flinch. “Are you planning to con me now, too?”
My stomach turned. He was referring to that scandal—the so-called investment scam that drained our savings and ruined my name. But it wasn’t me. Cassandra had forged my signature, stolen my authority, and wrecked the company. Still, I was the one everyone blamed.
“Tell me,” Nathaniel pressed, his eyes narrowing. “Are you risking our company again when you still owe your father millions?”
I froze. The memory of that day clawed its way back—the trembling in my hands, Cassandra’s perfect fake tears, and my father’s fury shaking the house. I’d begged them to listen. But Cassandra was too good at lying.
“She’s been keeping this from all of us,” she had cried back then, clutching my father’s arm as though she were innocent. “I didn’t want to expose her, but I saw Clara meeting those people myself!”
I had screamed that she was lying, my voice breaking, but Dad wouldn’t believe me. “Why would Cassandra lie?” he snapped. “She’s always been the reliable one!”
Nathaniel stormed toward me now, ripping my phone from my hand. “Who are you talking to?” His grip was rough, his expression sharp. “Give me your passcode.”
I pressed my lips together.
He jabbed a finger toward me. “Your password, Clara.”
I closed my eyes and muttered, “It’s my birthday.”
He typed it in, and the screen flashed incorrect password.
Nathaniel’s brow furrowed. “That’s not right. Isn’t your birthday September 8? Why isn’t it working?”
The ache in my chest deepened. I stared at him, my voice low and flat. “That’s Cassandra’s birthday.”
He didn’t even blink. No flicker of guilt. No realization. Just silence.
A humorless laugh escaped me. “Three years, Nathaniel. Three years of marriage, and you still don’t know when I was born.”
He scoffed. “Can you drop the melodrama for once? Just tell me who you were calling.”
“Says the man who can’t remember his own wife’s birthday,” I shot back, crossing my arms.
“So now I’m a bad husband because I don’t remember one date?” he sneered. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Forget it,” I said, exhaling sharply. “Actually, go out with Cassandra. I’m done arguing. I just need to rest.”
His tone sharpened. “Rest? Who said you could rest? Pack our things. We’re leaving for a business trip soon. And whatever nonsense you’re planning with those papers, make sure it’s not another scam.”
My head throbbed. “I’m not feeling well, Nathaniel.”
He spun on me, voice rising. “I don’t care! Do what I said!”
I swallowed the ache, pushed myself up, and headed to their bedroom. Just a few more days. That was all I needed—to erase every trace of them from my life.
I began folding Nathaniel’s starched shirts, his polished suits, Cassandra’s silky dresses that she paraded like trophies. The suitcase gaped open, swallowing their shared life piece by piece. I reached up to grab another stack of clothes when something slid off the top shelf—a small ivory box, hidden behind a set of cufflinks.
Curiosity won. I picked it up and opened the lid.
Inside was a velvet case, gleaming under the light—two elegant wedding rings, one encrusted with diamonds. Beneath it lay a glossy photograph: Nathaniel and Cassandra, arms wrapped around each other, smiling for the camera. Below that was a document.
My eyes scanned the bold title: Prenuptial Agreement.
Not ours. The date was recent. And at the bottom—Nathaniel’s and Cassandra’s signatures.
The air left my lungs. My fingers trembled as I clutched the paper, crumpling it. They weren’t just betraying me. They were planning to replace me—officially.
I placed the box back on the dresser, slow and steady, then zipped up the suitcase with deliberate calm. It wasn’t numbness anymore—it was closure.
Later that evening, I stood by the trash bins outside, surrounded by every reminder of my broken marriage. Letters. Jewelry. Notes he’d once written. All of it went into the fire pit. I struck a match and watched it burn—flames devouring every lie, every false memory of love.
The fire burned bright, fast.
Then Cassandra appeared, arms crossed, a smirk painted on her lips. “Burning the past, huh?” she said mockingly. “How poetic.”
I stayed silent, eyes fixed on the flames.
“So,” she continued, poking at the ashes with her foot, “does this mean you’re finally leaving him? When’s the big goodbye, Clara? You know you don’t belong here anymore.”
I picked up one last note from the ground, watching it curl in the heat. “Don’t worry,” I said quietly. “I’m leaving. For good.”
She laughed, cold and sharp. “Perfect. Let me help you pack faster.”
She dropped a pile of boxes beside me—haphazardly stacked things she had grabbed from my room. My chest tightened as I recognized them: my letters, small trinkets, my mother’s keepsakes.
“Old junk,” she said with a cruel grin. “Oh, and this?” She lifted a small velvet pouch—the one I kept hidden in my drawer. “Your mom’s old stuff. Honestly, it’s just clutter.”
“Stop,” I said sharply.
But Cassandra only smiled wider. From the pouch, she pulled out the broken gold locket—the last thing my mother had given me before she died. “A sentimental trinket? How cute.” And then she tossed it into the flames.
“No!” I screamed, lunging forward. The fire caught my hand, scorching hot. Pain exploded through me as I fell back, clutching my blistering skin.
And then Cassandra screamed—fake, loud, and convincing.
“Ah! My hand!” she cried, falling to the ground, pretending to cradle her fingers as tears streamed down her face.
Footsteps thundered. My father burst out from the house. “What the hell are you doing to Cassandra?!”
“Dad, wait!” I shouted, holding up my burned hand. “She—”
But he never listened. He never did.
The fire pit wobbled as he pushed past it in rage. His hand slammed into my shoulder, and I stumbled—straight into the flames.
The searing heat engulfed me. My scream tore through the night. Smoke filled my lungs. And then everything went dark.
