Messages kept pouring in:
“Aurora, you earned this! Everyone’s seen how hard you’ve worked these past years!”
“If you’re COO now, Mrs. Alonzo can’t be far behind. Better start treating her like royalty.”
Aurora even added a cheeky winking emoji.
Moments later, a cruel jab arrived:
“But Cassandra’s still lucky. Not everyone gets a second shot after… you know, killing someone. The boss is generous—he’s giving her something, at least.”
My heart hammered as I stared at the screen. Then I looked around. Damian’s face. Nate’s. Aria’s. All of them smiling. Smiling at Aurora the way they never once smiled at me.
I glanced down at the dollar bill still clutched in my hand. Ten years behind bars. Two dollars as a “reward.” And a husband who wished I’d never returned.
But I was back. And I wasn’t going to leave quietly.
---
To abide by the secret marriage agreement, Damian had moved out of the master bedroom, taking up residence in the guest room as if I were some tenant he barely tolerated.
He laid down rules like a CEO issuing a company policy to a new hire:
“No more sharing the car,” he said firmly.
“Don’t talk to me at the office unless it’s strictly business. Address me as ‘Mr. Alonzo’—professional only.”
And the last rule cut the deepest:
“Aurora and I have to maintain a public image—for the company. Don’t cause drama. We’re too old for that.”
He left before I could even reply. Just like ten years ago, he made decisions and vanished, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
Three days passed with him out of sight. On the second day, I sat curled on the couch, fever creeping through me, dizziness gnawing at my head.
I tried calling him. Nothing. My only other connection—Nate.
He was passing through the living room, Aria tugging at his sleeve, whining about wanting sushi instead of the catered food.
“Nate,” I asked softly, voice trembling, “do you know where your father is?”
He didn’t look at me.
“He said not to bother him unless he wants to talk to you,” he said, shrugging. Then, coldly, “Mom, you should just leave him alone. You’re not helping.”
He was gone before I could say another word.
That night, my phone finally rang. My hands shook as I answered, “I have a fever.”
“And I’m traveling,” his voice cut through me, sharp and clipped. “Handle it yourself. You’ve done this before.”
I closed my eyes, whispering back, “I u-understand,” barely audible.
Then came a voice that made my blood boil:
“Damian, can you help me lock this necklace? The clasp is so tiny…”
Aurora. Behind him. And I knew it wasn’t accidental.
He hung up quickly, but it was too late.
I spent the next hour in that freezing clinic, body burning—not from fever, but from rage.
The next morning, I opened Instagram. Aurora had changed her profile picture. A matching couple avatar. Her head resting on Damian’s shoulder, his arm around her waist.
I stared, memories stabbing. Years ago, I had asked him if we could do that—something small, tender. He had laughed. “What are we, teenagers? That’s tacky,” he said.
Apparently, it wasn’t tacky when it was Aurora. Not when the “prison wife” was erased from the public frame.
Damian’s messages, calls, and voice mails suddenly flooded in. I replied once:
“Please respect my rest period, Mr. Alonzo.”
Returning to the office, nothing had changed. My desk was buried under paperwork, whispers trailing me like shadows. To them, I was the ex-con the boss kept out of guilt—a relic. They didn’t realize I was the reason the company still thrived.
I packed the few personal items I had foolishly brought—mugs, a framed photo, keepsakes—stuffed them into a black garbage bag. I was ready to throw it out when Damian appeared, ghost-like, and grabbed my arm, dragging me into the stairwell.
“What’s this?” he snapped, seizing the bag. “You have time to clean up trash but can’t answer my calls?”
The lingering scent of Aurora’s perfume made me recoil.
“I already answered. I told you it was my rest time.”
“And you called me Mr. Alonzo?”
“You told me to.”
His eyes narrowed, disgust curling at his lips. “You’re being petty, Cassandra. Don’t push me into resenting you.”
He flung the garbage bag down the stairwell. The crash sounded like a gunshot—shattered glass, broken memories. A photo frame cracked. A mug with our wedding date. A dented tea tin.
I smiled bitterly, kneeling to gather the pieces with steady hands. No more hoping. No more pleading. No more enduring.
That night, I called a lawyer. By morning, the divorce draft was ready. I went to the print room to copy it, and the door opened. Damian stood there. Our eyes met—strangers now.
I held out the papers. “Sign when you have time, Mr. Alonzo.”
He didn’t skim them. Flipped straight to the last page, signed coldly, and handed it back. Then, without pause, he said:
“Join me for dinner tonight. Big investor. Play your part, Cassandra. Drink on my behalf.”
I stared. “You don’t need me to drink for you.”
Aurora’s giggle chimed from behind him. “Oh, the boss is being sweet again,” she teased. “He remembered I can’t drink tonight—my cold. Being fifty-three and sick is just extra stressful.”
I looked at them—the perfect couple in the hallway light: my husband and my replacement.
