If everything else he’d done could somehow be explained away, Cason West bringing Jessie Rose to trash my mother’s funeral was the final straw.
I stood there sobbing, screaming at Jessie to get out. But Cason just scowled and scolded me for being unreasonable. He claimed that Jessie, as a "victim," was gracious enough to come pay her respects despite everything. So why was I being so damn dramatic? The guests all turned on me, painting my mother—and the whole Reed family—as villains. Even my mother’s gravesite wasn’t spared. Vandals spray-painted graffiti all over it. I had no choice but to move my mother’s remains to some far-off, secluded hometown for burial.
After that, Jessie claimed she’d developed depression and latched onto Cason like a lifeline, practically glued to his side 24/7. And Cason, barely even annoyed, told me, "Rosalina, because of your brother, she’s struggling. I have to take responsibility for her." With that one word—"responsibility"—he handed Jessie a job at his company as his personal assistant, no hesitation. To keep me under his thumb, he held my brother’s situation over my head, threatening me with it every single day. "Rosalina Reed, if you dare run again, your brother will pay the price."
Driven to despair and feeling completely hopeless, I’d sit by the window every day, numb, counting down the days until Cason finally got tired of me and let me go. But Jessie never missed a single chance to provoke me, barging into our home over and over. As the days dragged on, I found myself hiding in some empty room, numbing the pain with way too many antipsychotic pills.
On the drive back, the cold wind seeped through the cracks in the car window, sending chills down my neck. Exhausted, I turned my head to the man concentrating on the road and said quietly, "Cason, I’m done. Let’s get a divorce."
The car screeched to a sudden halt. A wave of nausea hit me, and I nearly threw up. This year alone, I’d brought up divorce too many times to count. And each time, he just brushed it off or fed me some line to calm me down. But this time, his expression hardened—he actually looked serious. "Are you serious?" "I’m serious." Cason let out a cold, mocking laugh. "Fine. I’ll play along." Half an hour later, he actually drove me to the courthouse. We skipped mediation and went straight to signing the papers. The staff member soberly reminded us, "There’s a thirty-day cooling-off period for divorce." Before we got back in the car, he tossed out a cold warning: "Rosalina, I’ll be waiting for you to crawl back. Don’t come crying to me when you want me to return."
I didn’t even get a chance to respond before his phone rang. From his tone, I knew right away—it was Jessie. After he hung up, he casually told me, "Something urgent came up at the office. You’ll have to take a cab home. Oh, and don’t forget—Mr. King’s fiftieth birthday is tomorrow. Get a gift ready, and make sure it’s not black." And just like that, he drove away.
Cason always believed this marriage was my trap—something I could never truly leave. But what he didn’t know was that this time, I was dead set on leaving. I didn’t go back to that place. Instead, I booked a hotel room and bought a plane ticket for a flight out of the country in thirty days.
The next morning, his call came in right on schedule. "Where are you? Get back home. Now." "Cason, we’re still in the cooling-off period. That house isn’t my home anymore. I know that as long as we’re under the same roof, you’ll find a way to cancel the divorce." He chuckled. "You’re sharper than I gave you credit for. Just behave yourself at Mr. King’s party tonight, and don’t make a scene." I was about to argue when a soft, feminine voice cut through the line. "Cason, I found the tie you were looking for. It’s on the bed." "I had a late event, so I let Jessie crash here. Don’t read into it."
Don’t read into it? Bringing your old flame into our home—our bedroom—and letting her find your tie in the morning? A year ago, I would’ve lost my mind and smashed everything in sight. But now, all I felt was this bone-deep exhaustion. "Cason, we’ve signed the papers. Stop calling me." I was about to hang up when his ice-cold voice stopped me cold. "Rosalina Reed, I heard you’ve been sniffing around for a lawyer to appeal your brother’s case. Let me tell you something—without my say-so, nobody in Charleston will dare touch it."
