She stood in the rain until her clothes were plastered to her skin, until the chill sank past her bones and settled deep in her marrow.
Only then did she move, pivoting back toward the car.
The GPS lit up, showing the route home.
To Sterling Manor.
The grand house was pitch black and suffocatingly quiet. She had given the staff the night off, leaving her entirely alone. She let herself in, moving through the cavernous rooms where oversized furniture cast long, mocking shadows.
Her feet carried her to the kitchen. On the marble island, under a glass dome, sat a perfect, three-layer carrot cake. His favorite.
Today was his birthday. Their anniversary. She had spent the morning baking it.
She sat alone at the dark table, the cold silence pressing in on her. She remembered their wedding day, the hope that had beat like a trapped bird in her chest. Heathcliff and Georgiana had been the golden couple of high society, but when a tragic accident left Heathcliff in a vegetative state, Georgiana refused to sacrifice her soaring career as a principal dancer to play nursemaid. So, Ada’s parents had forced her to take her sister’s place. She had agreed willingly, her foolish heart already desperately in love with him.
For three grueling years, she had stayed by his bedside day and night. She gave up her social life, isolated herself from the world, and dedicated every waking second to his recovery. She had believed her devotion would be enough, that she could heal him. And she did. He woke up.
She had studied him. Learned his preferences until they became her own. She gave up coffee for his tea, filled their home with the scent of sandalwood he found calming, learned to be invisible.
Ada lit a single candle on the table. In the faint, flickering light, she caught her reflection in the glass. She saw a drab, lifeless housewife trapped in a severe dress. While she had withered away in this silent house, Georgiana had blossomed into a vibrant, dazzling swan on stage. And the moment Heathcliff opened his eyes, he had flown right back to the swan, discarding the ugly duckling who had saved him.
The bitter realization burned in her chest. For three years, the only person moved by her sacrifice was herself. A tear slipped down her cheek as she blew out the candle, plunging the room back into absolute darkness.
All for nothing.
Ada lifted the glass dome. The scent of cinnamon and sugar filled the air. For a moment, she felt nothing. Then, with a calm, deliberate motion, she picked up the cake stand, walked to the trash can, and scraped the entire thing into the bin.
It landed with a soft, wet thud.
Suddenly, the blinding glare of headlights sliced through the dark windows. A sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom tore up the driveway. Ada’s breath caught. He was home. She had assumed he would spend the entire night wrapped in Georgiana’s arms.
The heavy door swung open, and Heathcliff stepped inside, bringing the chill of the night air with him. He was the golden boy of the city’s elite—a ruthless business prodigy with two degrees from Harvard who had conquered Wall Street by his twenties and now ruled the Sterling empire. He stood there in his bespoke black suit, possessing a lethal, untouchable grace.
"Why is it so dark?" he asked, his low, magnetic voice laced with habitual distance. He reached out and flipped the switch, flooding the room with harsh light.
Ada squinted against the glare, looking at him. He brought the reek of whiskey and expensive cigars with him. Underneath it all, a scent that clung to his clothes, faint but unmistakable. Peonies and blush suede.
Georgiana.
"Today is your birthday," Ada said, her voice steady, empty.
He didn’t look at her. He never did. He merely glanced lazily at the dining table, his handsome face devoid of emotion. "Don't waste your time next year. I don't celebrate it."
A mocking smile curved Ada’s lips. "Is it that you don't celebrate it, or you just don't want to celebrate it with me?"
He finally gave her a freezing side-glance, clearly impatient. "Think whatever you want." He walked straight toward the stairs, the silence between them heavier than any argument.
Ada stood up, watching his broad, unyielding back. "Since it’s your birthday, I prepared a gift for you."
Heathcliff didn't stop walking. "I don't need it."
A chilling, beautiful laugh escaped Ada’s lips. The weak, pleading woman was gone, replaced by a sharp, unbreakable presence. "We're getting a divorce, Heathcliff."
He froze, one foot already on the stairs. He stared at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign language. He turned around, his deep, dark eyes locking onto hers.
Ada met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes, which had always held a pleading hope, were now two chips of ice.
"I said," she repeated, each word perfectly formed, "Let's get a divorce, Heathcliff. Do you like your birthday gift?"
He stepped down from the stairs and stared at her. For the first time, Heathcliff Sterling truly saw his wife. The quiet woman was gone. In her place was a stranger with her face and eyes that held a chilling, remote distance.
He saw the dismissal in her eyes and felt nothing. No anger. No pain.
Just a blank wall where there used to be adoration.
