Ellyn collapsed onto the cold bathroom tiles.
Her knees hit the floor with a dull thud. She reached up with trembling hands and turned the shower dial all the way to the left. Scalding hot water blasted from the showerhead, soaking through the torn bedsheet and hitting her bruised skin.
She sat under the spray, her body shaking uncontrollably. The water washed away the physical traces of him, but it couldn't wash away the deep, throbbing ache between her thighs or the hollow emptiness in her chest.
She forced herself to stand. Her legs wobbled. She gripped the edge of the marble sink, her knuckles white, and leaned over the basin.
She splashed cold water onto her face, trying to shock her system back to reality.
As the water ran down the drain, she noticed something strange. The water swirling around the silver drain stopper was mixed with tiny, dull flakes of dead skin, like old wallpaper peeling away.
Ellyn froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
She slowly raised her left hand and touched her cheek. She touched the spot where the hideous, raised scar had lived for twenty years.
Her fingertips didn't meet rough, dead tissue.
Instead, pieces of skin peeled away under her touch. It felt like wet wallpaper flaking off a wall.
A sharp gasp ripped from her lungs. She jerked her head up and stared into the massive vanity mirror.
The steam parted. Ellyn stopped breathing.
The woman staring back at her didn't have a scar. The left side of her face was completely smooth. The skin was flawless, porcelain-pale, and perfect. The ugly mark that had defined her entire miserable existence was simply gone.
"No," she whispered.
She rubbed her cheek frantically. She scrubbed the skin until it turned raw and pink, terrified that it was a trick of the light, a hallucination brought on by the trauma.
But it was real. The scar was gone.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her mind raced back to what had just happened in the bedroom. The forced intimacy. The exchange of bodily fluids. A wild, impossible thought slammed into her brain.
Baron's body was the cure. His physical chemistry had somehow triggered the healing.
Before she could process the magnitude of this discovery, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the bedroom. The main door of the penthouse opened and slammed shut.
Baron was gone.
Panic seized her. If the Hudson family found out her face was healed, they wouldn't let her go. Baron would think she had undergone some experimental, dangerous surgery just to stay with him. They would treat her like a freak, a lab rat.
She yanked open the vanity drawer. Her hands flew through her makeup bag.
She grabbed a dark, heavy concealer and a box of waterproof bandages. With frantic, jerky movements, she smeared the dark paste over her flawless left cheek. She haphazardly layered the bandages over the concealer, making a mess of it. Her trembling fingers created a rough, grotesque lump. While far from perfect, in the dim light of the bathroom, it was enough to temporarily fool anyone.
She stared at the mirror. The ugly duckling was back. Her eyes, however, were no longer filled with fear. They were dead, cold, and clear.
Ellyn unlocked the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom.
The room was a disaster. The torn nightgown lay on the floor. The bed was a mess of tangled sheets.
She didn't shed a single tear. She walked straight to the walk-in closet and dragged out a battered, cheap suitcase from the very back. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her four years ago.
She opened it on the floor. She ignored the rows of Chanel dresses, the Hermès bags, and the velvet boxes of Cartier jewelry Baron had bought her for public appearances. She grabbed her old, faded jeans, her plain t-shirts, and a worn-out gray hoodie.
As she zipped the suitcase shut, she heard voices in the hallway.
Ellyn froze. She crept toward the bedroom door and pressed her ear against the wood.
"Did you see his face when he left?" It was Brenda, one of the senior maids. Her English was thick with a Bronx accent. "He looked ready to kill. I bet the ugly bitch is finally getting thrown out tonight."
"About time," another maid snickered. "Mr. Hudson's assistant just called. Christine is flying back from Paris next week. He's clearing out the trash to make room for the real lady of the house."
The name hit Ellyn like a physical blow to the stomach.
Christine.
She stumbled backward. Her spine hit the doorframe with a heavy thud.
The maids outside went dead silent. Footsteps hurried away down the hall.
Ellyn stood frozen. The cold seeped into her bones.
It all made sense now. The sudden divorce papers. The absolute lack of mercy. The rush to get her out. It wasn't just because he hated her. It was because his first love, his perfect white lotus, was coming back.
Ten years of loving him. Four years of being his punching bag. All of it was just a placeholder until Christine was ready to return.
A harsh, dry laugh scraped its way out of Ellyn's throat.
She walked over to the glass vanity table. She looked at her left hand. She gripped the plain platinum wedding band and pulled it off her finger.
She tossed it onto the glass surface. The metal hit the glass with a sharp, final clink.
She pulled the gray hoodie over her head and yanked the strings tight, hiding her face in the shadows. She grabbed the handle of her cheap suitcase.
She didn't look back.
Ellyn walked out of the penthouse. The hallway was empty. The warm glow of the wall sconces made her sick.
She bypassed the private elevator. She pushed open the heavy, metal fire door leading to the stairwell.
A blast of cold, stale air hit her face. The heavy door swung shut behind her, cutting off the luxury of the Hudson world forever. She gripped the railing and started the long walk down into the dark.
