The grocery bags dug into my wrists, the thin plastic biting against my skin as I tried not to drop anything. The dry-cleaning bag kept slipping off my fingers, and I had to juggle between the frozen meat and the imported facial masks Bianca demanded. Behind me, the freshly pressed coats swung like silent ghosts on hangers. The taxi sped off before I could even reach for my wallet.
By the time I pushed open the front gate, the sun was already sinking low, washing the garden in orange light. I slipped inside quietly, the way I always did. It didn’t really matter—no one ever noticed when I came home—but silence made me feel less intrusive.
Bianca’s voice was the first thing I heard. She sat sprawled on the couch like a queen, legs propped up on a velvet ottoman, dark shades shielding her eyes as a nail technician shaped her toes to perfection.
“Oh, at last!” she announced theatrically. “The maid has returned from her noble errands.”
I didn’t answer. I just went straight to the kitchen, unloaded the bags, and began sorting through them. Frozen meat. Vegetables. Skin masks. I arranged everything mechanically, focusing on the small order it brought.
Her voice trailed in again, sickly sweet and sharp at once.
“So, what’s on tonight’s menu, dear servant—sorry, I mean best friend?”
I didn’t look up. Didn’t even blink.
“Are we doing the silent treatment now?” she pressed. “That’s brave of you. Considering how easily Adrian gets upset when I so much as mention your name.”
I tightened my grip on the knife. The onion’s sting was nothing compared to hers.
Finally, I muttered, “What do you want from me, Bianca? Haven’t you taken enough?”
All that was mine—every bit of love, comfort, and recognition—had been replaced by her laughter echoing through my walls.
She smiled faintly, almost tenderly. “Not enough,” she said. “Because I want you gone.”
For a moment, it was as if the air itself stopped.
I stared at her—not the childhood friend I once trusted, not the girl who shared secrets and silly dreams with me—but a stranger wearing her face, her voice, her perfume. Someone who had slipped into my life like a thief and now wanted to erase the last trace of me.
“You were my friend,” I said quietly, voice trembling at the edges. “And you betrayed me.”
I didn’t wait for her answer. I turned and walked away, one slow step at a time. No slamming doors, no tears. Just a long climb up the stairs that felt heavier with each breath. When I reached my room, I locked the door, laid down on the bed without even changing, and stared at the ceiling until the daylight faded.
Then came Adrian.
He didn’t knock—he never did. The door flew open, the sound hitting harder than any word.
“What did you say to Bianca?” he demanded.
My head turned sluggishly. “What are you talking about?”
“She’s refusing to go to Finland now. Says you made her feel guilty, that she doesn’t deserve the trip. Did you say something to her?”
“Of course not,” I replied, pushing myself upright. “She provoked me, as usual. I didn’t even respond.”
He laughed bitterly. “You always twist things, don’t you? You’re jealous.”
“Jealous?” I repeated, a strange calm settling over me. “Adrian, I’m your wife. And yet you’ve been choosing her—again and again—like I’m nothing but air. You expect me to smile while you take her on the trip I dreamed of my whole life?”
His expression darkened. The blow came fast.
It wasn’t the first time—but it was the last one that truly registered. His palm connected with my face so hard I tasted blood. My head snapped sideways, but I stayed standing.
“Don’t you dare talk back to me!” he thundered. “You’re pathetic.”
I kept my eyes shut.
“If I could redo my life,” he hissed, “I’d never have married you. Ever.”
The words didn’t hurt as much as they should have. Maybe because they were the truth I’d been pretending not to know.
He wasn’t finished. “Bianca didn’t want to settle then, so I chose you. My biggest mistake. You’ve always been second best—no charm, no passion, no ambition. You’ll always be her shadow.”
This time, I didn’t defend myself. I just listened.
It hit me—he had never loved me. I was simply convenient. Temporary. A substitute for someone he couldn’t have. And he had punished me for it every day since.
He leaned in close, his voice cold. “If you ever hurt Bianca again, you’re out of this house. Understand?”
He slammed the door behind him, leaving silence in his wake.
I raised a trembling hand to my cheek. My skin burned, but my heart didn’t. Not anymore.
I met my reflection in the mirror—swollen face, tired eyes—but for the first time, I didn’t see a victim. I saw someone finally ready to vanish on her own terms.
“I’ll leave before you can throw me away,” I whispered.
That night, I stayed upstairs. No dinner. No chores. No apologies. Just me, a flickering candle, and the sound of wind slipping through the curtains.
When the flame finally died, my phone vibrated. A single message appeared on the screen:
“Ms. Trinidad Dela Torre, your divorce has been finalized and recorded. You are now legally free.”
I read it twice, then smiled faintly. My voice came out steadier than I expected.
“You’ll all regret this,” I murmured. “Every last one of you.”
And for the first time in years, I actually meant it.
