I stared at the divorce papers in my hands, the words blurring through my tears. After everything—the betrayal, the loss of my baby, the physical pain—this was all I had left. One final act of defiance.
I couldn't go to Sterling. He'd made it clear I was nothing but a possession, a convenient shield for his affair with Avery. If I wanted freedom, I needed to go higher.
"Mrs. Richardson," the butler announced me, his voice echoing through the cavernous foyer of the Richardson estate.
Sterling's grandfather sat in his study, a imposing figure behind an antique desk. His eyes, so like Sterling's yet somehow warmer, assessed me carefully.
"Evangeline," he said, gesturing to a chair. "This is unexpected."
I remained standing, clutching the papers. "I need to speak with you about Sterling."
Something flickered across his face—concern, perhaps, or suspicion.
"Your grandson has been having an affair with my sister," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "For our entire marriage."
The old man's expression hardened. "These are serious accusations."
"I have proof." I placed the divorce papers on his desk. "And I want out."
He scanned the documents, his jaw tightening with each page. When he looked up, his eyes had turned to ice.
"This is... dishonorable," he said finally. "The Richardson name has never been associated with such scandal."
"Then help me end it quietly," I pleaded.
Before he could respond, the study door burst open. Sterling stormed in, his face contorted with rage.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, grabbing my arm.
"Let go of me," I hissed.
"Grandfather, I apologize for this intrusion," Sterling said, not sounding sorry at all. "My wife is... unwell."
"She's filing for divorce," the old man replied, his voice heavy with disappointment.
Sterling's grip tightened painfully. "No one is filing anything."
He snatched the papers from the desk and tore them to shreds, the sound of ripping paper deafening in the silent room.
"You don't get to decide when this is over," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "I do."
---
The headlines were everywhere. "RICHARDSON WIFE CAUGHT CHEATING: THE TRUTH BEHIND THE MISCARRIAGE."
I stared at the tabloid in horror, my hands trembling as I flipped through page after page of doctored photos—me entering hotels with men I'd never seen before, my face clearly visible while theirs were strategically obscured.
"Where did these come from?" I whispered to myself, though I already knew.
Avery's smug voice echoed in my memory: "You should have stayed in your place, sister dear."
The hospital discharge had been planned for today. I'd barely recovered from the miscarriage, my body still weak and aching. But as I stepped through the hospital doors, camera flashes blinded me.
"Mrs. Richardson! Is it true you lost the baby because of your affairs?"
"Evangeline! Did Sterling know about your infidelity?"
"Whore!" someone shouted from the crowd.
Paparazzi swarmed around me, their lenses capturing every moment of my humiliation. I stumbled backward, nearly collapsing before a nurse caught me.
"You need to go back inside," she urged, shielding me from the cameras.
But I couldn't stay there forever. And I couldn't fight them—not here, not now.
---
The nursing home was quiet at midnight. I slipped past the night nurse's station, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Grandma?" I whispered, gently shaking her awake.
She blinked at me in confusion. "Evangeline? What's wrong?"
"We need to leave," I said, helping her sit up. "Right now."
Understanding dawned in her eyes—she'd always known more than she let on about my situation.
"Where will we go?" she asked, reaching for her glasses.
"New York," I replied, pulling out a small bag of essentials I'd hidden earlier. "I have a friend there who can help us."
We moved silently through the darkened hallways, my arm supporting her frail body. At the service entrance, I paused to listen for any sound of discovery.
"Nothing left to lose," I murmured to myself, thinking of the jewelry I'd sold for cash, the bus tickets purchased under a false name.
The night air was crisp against my skin as we slipped into the waiting taxi. My wedding ring sat heavy in my pocket—a circle of gold that had once meant everything and now meant nothing.
At the bus station, I scribbled a final note on hotel stationary:
"You win. I'm gone."
I placed it on the nightstand beside my wedding ring, a small act of defiance in a war I'd already lost.
As the bus pulled away from the station, carrying us toward an uncertain future, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass window and closed my eyes.
New York City awaited. And with it, perhaps, a chance to rebuild what had been so thoroughly destroyed.
