Bye, Husband. Hello, Freedom!

I lit the candle in silence.

It was a soft white flame, steady and still, unlike my trembling fingers as I placed it beside the tiny pair of socks we had bought just a month ago. Blue and cotton-soft. Denver had picked them out, said they reminded him of the sky. He had said he wanted our son to grow up brave.

I knelt in front of the little altar I had made for our baby and closed my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice quaking. “I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve seen them for what they are. I’m sorry you never got a chance to meet this world... but maybe that’s a blessing too.”

I stayed like that for minutes—or maybe hours—just letting the grief pass through me. When I finally stood, I knew what I had to do next.

It was time to move on.

I started with the nursery.

Every folded onesie. Every pacifier. Every soft animal blanket. Every memory I thought we would build was packed into boxes. And then, I added the things Denver gave me—the anniversary necklaces, the journals, even the framed photo of us on our honeymoon in Italy where he whispered, “You’re my everything.”

All lies.

I carried the boxes out to the fire pit behind the house, lit a match, and watched the past burn.

Ash curled up into the air like ghosts escaping. As I stood there, the wind catching my hair, I remembered the first time I met Denver.

Five years ago.

It was the night I was told I was the rightful heiress to the Montera Group. Everything I knew about my life had unraveled in a single breath. But Denver was there. Calm, warm, persuasive. My family said it was fate—he was the son of a partner corporation, a perfect face for the merger.

And me? I was foolishly in love. At first sight, even. He made me feel seen.

At least in the beginning. But love from a man like Denver came with conditions. Expectations. Manipulation.

And betrayal.

After the flames died down, I returned inside to clean. I opened Denver’s closet to arrange his things, still like a perfect wife.

That’s when I saw it. A box tucked behind his jackets. I pulled it out, curious. It was heavier than I expected.

When I opened it, my heart stopped.

A photo album. And not just any album—prenup photos. Of Denver. And Patricia.

I stared at the glossy images, each one a dagger. Patricia in a white gown. Denver in a black tuxedo. Her smiling at him like a woman in love. Him holding her like a man who had already moved on.

The dates were recent. Just days before the accident. My mouth went dry. My legs threatened to give out beneath me. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply closed the box, and walked it outside.

I told myself I’d already mourned enough.

When I came back in, the scent of garlic and butter wafted through the house. Patricia was in the kitchen, flipping shrimp on the pan like she belonged there. My mother, Paula, and my father, David, were seated at the dining table. Denver was setting out wine glasses, smiling like everything was perfectly normal.

I paused at the doorway.

Patricia turned and beamed at me. “Just in time. I made shrimp pasta. It’s one of Denver’s favorites—and Mom’s.”

We sat down. The plate was set in front of me, steaming, garnished with parsley.

I just stared at it.

“What’s wrong now?” my mother snapped, already impatient. “You’re not going to eat?”

“I’m… not hungry,” I murmured.

She sighed and waved a hand. “Always the difficult one. Can’t you at least appreciate your sister’s effort?”

Patricia tilted her head. “It’s okay, really. She doesn’t have to eat if she doesn’t want to.”

“She should,” Denver cut in smoothly. “Patricia went through the trouble. Don’t be rude, Alicia. It’s not always about you.”

Not always about me?

I bit my lip. Hard. They didn’t know. Or maybe they did and simply forgot.

I was allergic to shrimp. I had been hospitalized for it once. A full-blown anaphylactic shock. But no one remembered. No one asked.

Not even Denver. Not even my own mother because even if I said no, they forced me to eat, just for Patricia.

“Fine,” I said, swallowing my pride—and spoonful of pasta.

It only took seconds.

My throat began to tighten. My chest felt like it was caving in. I couldn’t breathe.

I clutched the table edge, gasping.

“What now?” Paula snapped. “Is the food not good enough for you?”

“She’s doing this on purpose,” Denver muttered, sipping his wine. “If you didn’t like it, you could’ve just said so, Alicia.”

I tried to speak, but no sound came out.

My vision blurred. Spots danced in the corners of my eyes. I was drowning in air.

Then—darkness.