I stood frozen in the middle of my bedroom, the security footage still playing on my phone. The cat watched me with indifferent yellow eyes, stretching lazily across my pillows. Each strand of fur on my pristine white sheets was like a knife twisting deeper into my chest.
The front door clicked open. I heard Nathan's footsteps, his cheerful whistling echoing through our apartment.
"Aria? Are you home early?"
I didn't answer. My fingers closed around the gold medal I'd retrieved from the floor, its weight suddenly meaningless.
His footsteps grew closer. "Babe? I was just about to—"
He appeared in the doorway, his expression shifting from surprise to horror when he saw me standing there. His eyes darted from my face to the cat on our bed, then to the phone in my hand.
"I can explain," he said immediately, his voice dropping to that soothing tone he used with difficult clients.
I walked past him into the living room, my body moving mechanically. The evidence of their betrayal was everywhere—wine glasses with lipstick stains, takeout containers from restaurants Nathan claimed to hate, a woman's hair tie on the coffee table.
"Explain what exactly?" My voice sounded distant, hollow. "How you brought a cat into our home? Or how you've been fucking Isabella in our bed?"
His face paled. "That's not—it's not what you think."
"I have it on video, Nathan." I turned my phone toward him, Isabella's laughter filling the space between us. "Every moment. Every lie."
He lunged for the phone, but I pulled it away. Something shifted in his eyes—the mask slipping.
"You were spying on me?" he demanded, his voice hardening. "You put cameras in our home without telling me?"
"Our home?" I laughed, the sound brittle. "The home I bought with my competition money? The home you promised would be safe?"
"You're overreacting." Nathan ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair—his tell when lying. "It was just... stress relief. Isabella means nothing to me."
"Nothing?" I gestured toward the bedroom. "You brought a cat into our bedroom knowing what it would do to me. You mocked my scars, my trauma."
"It's just a cat, Aria." His voice took on an edge of exasperation. "It's been twenty years. I thought maybe you'd finally gotten over that ridiculous phobia."
Something shattered inside me. I grabbed the nearest object—a crystal vase he'd given me for our anniversary—and hurled it against the wall. Glass exploded in a glittering arc.
"Get out," I whispered.
"You're being hysterical." He stepped toward me, hands outstretched. "Let's talk about this like adults. You're stressed from the competition—"
"I WON THE COMPETITION!" I screamed, sweeping my arm across the coffee table. The wine glasses crashed to the floor. "I came home to celebrate with you!"
He flinched, stepping back. "Aria, please—"
"Three weeks." My voice dropped to a whisper. "I was gone three weeks, and you couldn't even wait that long."
I moved to the wall where my favorite paintings hung—studies for my competition piece. With trembling hands, I took them down one by one, stacking them carefully by the door.
"What are you doing?" Nathan asked, alarm creeping into his voice.
"Taking what's mine."
"This is insane. You need to calm down." He grabbed my wrist. "Isabella was a mistake. It won't happen again."
I wrenched away from him, my fingernails leaving red crescents in his skin. "Don't touch me."
He stepped back, his expression hardening. "Fine. I'm going out. When I come back, I expect you to be rational."
The door slammed behind him, leaving me alone amid the wreckage of glass and trust. I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, and dialed a number with shaking fingers.
"Professor Williams?" My voice cracked. "I need your help."
His gruff voice answered immediately. "Aria? What's wrong?"
"Everything." I stared at the shattered glass glittering on the floor like fallen stars. "My relationship is over. I need... I need somewhere to go."
A long pause. Then: "The Paris residency. It's yours if you want it. Three years, fully funded."
"When?" I whispered.
"As soon as you can get here."
I ended the call and sat in silence until dawn broke over the Los Angeles skyline. When the law offices opened at eight, I made another call.
"Eleanor Croft's office," a crisp voice answered.
"My name is Aria Blackwood. I need to speak with Ms. Croft about initiating divorce proceedings."
Thirty minutes later, I sat across from Eleanor, her steel-gray eyes assessing me over half-moon glasses.
"I want everything frozen," I said, signing the papers she'd prepared. "Joint accounts, assets, everything."
"And the apartment?" she asked.
I thought of the cat hair embedded in my white carpet, the memory of Isabella's laughter echoing through rooms I'd once loved.
"Sell it," I said. "I never want to set foot in it again."
As I left Eleanor's office, my phone buzzed with a text from Nathan: "We need to talk. I'm sorry. Please come home."
I deleted the message without replying. There was no home to return to anymore—only a crime scene where love had been murdered.
