The next morning, I opened every drawer, every dusty cabinet, and every forgotten box. One by one, I emptied the shelves. Jewelry boxes, old perfume bottles, wrinkled love letters, receipts from our anniversary dinners that felt staged even back then. Every gift he had ever given me—bracelets with half-hearted engravings, heels he bought in the wrong size, cheap perfumes wrapped in ribbon.
Into the bin they went.
And the wedding album—the one Donna insisted on designing for us with those gold foil titles and scripted captions—sat last in my lap. My fingers hovered over it for a second, almost uncertain. But then I remembered the way Jackson had called me nothing. How Donna had smirked with her French-manicured claws, talking about taking my place.
I tossed the album into the metal drum behind the house.
Then I lit the match.
Jackson didn’t notice. He was too busy laughing with Donna in the garden, sipping wine like we weren’t supposed to be broke. I heard them talking about Finland. About fur coats. About how Donna wanted to visit the ice hotel “like the influencer she followed.”
Everyone else in the house was excited, buzzing like bees high on sugar.
Even Zane, the little boy I once tucked in and fed when no one else would, sneered as I passed him a cup of juice.
“You don’t belong here,” he muttered under his breath.
I didn’t even look at him.
I just kept stirring the pot on the stove. I set the plates, folded the napkins, made sure Donna’s steak was medium rare, and reheated her espresso exactly how she liked it. Just one last time.
She didn’t say thank you.
No one did.
After dinner, Jackson surprised me. He came into the kitchen—alone, for once—and handed me a small ice pack. For my back.
His voice was soft. Sickeningly so.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” he said. “I just didn’t want you acting jealous.”
I blinked.
Jealous? That was the word he chose?
He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a keychain from Finland when we get back.”
A keychain. After everything.
He glanced around. “Just make sure we didn’t forget anything, okay? Pack the chargers, the coats, Donna’s pills, and her backup heels.”
I kept my voice low. “I made sure you didn’t forget anything.”
He patted my arm. “Good. We’ll see you when we get back.”
Then he turned and walked away, calling out, “Come on, Donna! Let’s not miss the flight!”
She waltzed and held her coat like she was being crowned.
“Oh, Trina,” she cooed with mock sympathy. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring you something. Maybe even some of those fancy chocolates you like.”
Tania scoffed. “Don’t, Aunt Donna. She doesn’t have the money to pay for it anyway.”
I faked a smile and ignored them. They all loaded up into the SUV out front. Zane ran past me without a goodbye. Donna threw her suitcase in like a queen heading off to conquer the world. Jackson adjusted his collar and barked a few last-minute instructions I didn’t bother to listen to.
And then… they were gone.
The second their car turned out of the driveway, something in the air changed.
I breathed again. I didn’t waste time.
I pulled out the boxes I had hidden under the bed weeks ago. I packed only what mattered—my documents, old photo albums of my parents, the leather-bound notebook I once kept poems in, a few clothes, my passport, my own dreams. I changed every lock on the doors, reset the passcodes, and closed the shutters.
Then I took out the divorce papers. Stamped. Official. Done.
I placed them carefully on the dining table—where he would surely see them first when they returned.
I slipped off my wedding ring and left it on top of the paper.
Beside it, I placed the chocolate cake I had baked that morning.
On the white frosting, I wrote in red icing: "Happy Divorce, My Husband!"
I stepped out of the house with my suitcase and didn’t look back. The limousine I had scheduled pulled up to the curb right on time. The driver greeted me with a soft nod. He took my luggage and opened the door.
I slid into the leather seat and watched as the house faded from view.
The mansion I once thought would be a home. Now just another expensive lie built on betrayal.
Halfway to the airport, my phone buzzed.
I stared at the screen. It was him.
Jackson: Don’t leave the house. If you leave without telling me, I’ll be furious and you’ll get a punishment from me. You hear me? Be a good dog!
I didn’t reply. A second message arrived seconds later.
Jackson: Where is Donna’s favorite scarf? Didn’t she tell you to pack it? You ruined her mood. Go get it and bring it to us. We’re at the airport. Now.
My thumb hovered over the screen. I looked at the messages—like commands from a master to a servant.
And then, finally, I typed: “I don’t want to bring it to you. I am no longer your maid. And if you regret marrying me, then I too regret wasting my life with you. Goodbye.”
I hit send. Then I blocked the number, took the SIM card out, and tossed it from the window.
By the time the car pulled up at the airport terminal, the sky had already begun to turn pink. And there is my new beginning.
