We pulled up in front of Lance’s private hotel—a quiet luxury tower tucked away from Sullivan Holdings, far from society’s lenses. He stepped out first, then opened my door like he always used to.
Not because I was weak.
But because he always gave a damn.
Dominic’s car screeched to a stop at the curb just as Lance placed a hand at the small of my back and guided me through the lobby.
I felt Dominic’s rage even without looking. His jealousy and animosity poured through the air like acid rain.
Inside, the marble floor gleamed beneath my heels. The receptionist gave a nod, no questions asked. Lance’s hand never left my back as he led me toward the private elevator.
Dominic’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Therese!”
I didn’t turn. But I heard the disbelief.
Lance pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open with a chime.
Dominic’s footsteps thundered. Lance behind us.
“Therese, don’t walk away from me.”
This time, I glanced at him over my shoulder. “I did that the night you let me die.”
The elevator doors began to close. But just before they sealed us in, he stepped forward and growled, “He’s not who you think he is.”
I didn’t blink. “And you were?”
The lift swallowed us whole.
Inside, Lance said nothing for a beat.
Then softly, “He’s not going to stop, I know.”
“He already is,” I replied.
The elevator dinged on the penthouse floor. We stepped into the private suite—warm lights, quiet elegance, and not a single memory of Dominic. Just clean air.
I walked toward the window, overlooking the city I used to belong to. My phone buzzed again.
Twenty-seven missed calls from Dominic. Then I felt Lance draping a soft blanket around my shoulders.
His voice was low. “You’re safe now.”
___
Three days passed.
The courtroom was sterile—clean lines, ticking clocks, the scent of cold paper and bitter resolve. The judge’s gavel struck once. Just once. But that single crack sliced through nearly a decade of history.
“Divorce granted,” the judge said flatly.
Dominic stood to my left. Silent. Stoic. In that sharp gray suit, he looked like the perfect corporate king. But I knew better. His jaw was tight. His hands clenched.
Rage flickered in the shadows of his eyes. I didn’t look at him as I gathered my things. Outside the courthouse, the city stretched like a freshly scrubbed canvas.
Later that night, the bar pulsed with quiet jazz and golden light, tucked into the heart of Lance’s hotel. Cola was already at our reserved booth, nursing a cocktail that sparkled like her grin.
“To freedom,” she said as I slid in beside her.
“Cheers!” I chimed in, clinking my glass to hers.
Lance joined us later—casual, charming, sleeves rolled up. The staff knew him by name, and the air shifted when he entered. He leaned over to whisper something into Cola’s ear, making her laugh.
I barely spoke. I just listened. Let the music melt into the background while the weight of the day dissolved in champagne bubbles.
No more court dates. No more waiting. No more Dominic. No more mistress along my way. By eleven in the evening, we called it a night.
Cola looped her arm through mine as we stepped out onto the quiet sidewalk, the night air cool and clear. Our heels clicked against the pavement, echoing off the sleeping buildings.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, stripped of her usual sass.
“I think so,” I said. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”
“It will,” she replied. “You just survived hell in heels. Now it’s time to live like you own the damn fire.”
I smiled faintly. “I just want peace.”
Cola stopped walking, gently tugging my arm until I looked at her. “You’ll have it, T. You already are it. He doesn't get to haunt you anymore.”
I nodded, even though a strange chill rippled down my spine. She then got into the car and drove off.
I exhaled and walked the last block alone.
It was past midnight when I returned to my condo. The hallway was still, the lights dimmed to a sleepy amber glow. My heels clicked softly against the marble tiles as I approached the door. I pressed my thumb to the sensor, but I felt something off as I stepped inside.
I slipped off my heels, padding silently across the floor. Then I saw a jacket—draped over the back of the chair. Navy. Wool. Familiar.
My pulse thudded as I turned toward the living room.
And there he was—Dominic.
“You changed the locks,” he murmured, swirling the goblet in his hand.
I stepped back instinctively. “What the hell are you doing here?!”
