Goodbye, I'm Not Yours Anymore

Mrs. Rodrigo’s fake little socialite smile cracked the moment I dropped the number.

“Ten million,” I said again, cool as glass.

She blinked once. Twice. And then I saw it—that twitch in her jaw. That microscopic second where her brain short-circuited because someone like me, the nobody she thought she could buy out with crocodile tears and a platinum credit card, dared to name my price.

She exhaled through her nose like a bull in heels, then waved at her assistant.

“Fine. Draft the contract. Five mil now. The rest after she disappears.”

No “please.” No “thank you.” Just pure transactional venom.

I watched the woman tap away on her tablet like she was ordering lunch, not finalizing the erasure of someone’s life.

“And you’ll swear—” Mrs. Rodrigo turned back to me, eyes like daggers. “You’ll never contact my son again. Never show your face at any Rodrigo-affiliated event. Ever.”

I stared at her for a beat. Then nodded.

“I swear,” I said. “On the last shred of respect I ever had for this family.”

She smirked, satisfied like she’d just flushed something disgusting down the drain.

“Good. Be a smart girl. Pack up whatever illusions you’ve got left and leave quietly.”

I signed the contract without blinking. My signature looked so clean under that Rodrigo Enterprises watermark it almost felt surreal. But my hands were steady.

Because I remembered.

I remembered the first time she slapped me—not with her hand, but with a wad of cash. A crisp, arrogant stack of bills tossed across my lap like I was something she ordered off a discount menu.

“Take this,” she’d sneered. “And buy yourself clothes that don’t look like a funeral home had a clearance sale.”

I remembered how she made me scrub her marble bathroom floor while she sat in the tub on her phone, sipping champagne like I was her live-in maid. The way her friends would walk past and laugh, calling it “rich people bonding.”

And I remembered the time she spilled mineral water—on purpose—right in front of her media team, then handed me a mop like I wasn’t her son’s wife, but the damn janitor.

“You missed a spot,” she’d said, not even looking up from her mirror.

I didn’t miss anything.

Not the snide comments. Not the constant tests. Not the way she used every dinner party, every gala, every “family” meeting to remind me I didn’t belong.

But now? Now I was the one handing her terms. Naming my price. Setting the conditions.

I watched her sign beside me, her diamond pen shaking ever so slightly.

Let her call it a win if it helped her sleep.

Because this wasn’t a goodbye.

It was just my opening move.

They didn’t know it, but I was never really a Winslock. The family that raised me had adopted me when I was five. My real last name? Something even the Rodrigo’s wouldn’t be able to touch. My biological brother had found me three days ago, and wanted me back.

Mrs. Rodrigo leaned back in her designer chair, lips curling in smug satisfaction. “You’ll be on a plane in a week. One-way. I’ll have your new identity prepared.”

“No need,” I said flatly, pushing back from the table. “I’m done living under someone else’s name.”

I turned to walk out when the double doors flew open like a bad movie scene.

Favio.

Storming in with all the rage of a man who finally noticed the flames after the house had already burned down.

His hair was a mess, coat half-on, eyes bloodshot.

“Mom,” he snapped, “what the hell are you doing? Amelia just lost our baby!” He barreled forward and stood between us like a guard dog. “She’s my wife. I won’t let you use her as a bargaining chip just to keep this damn family name alive.”

I looked at his back, his shoulders rigid like a knight protecting his queen.

And for a second, I remembered that version of him—the man who once threatened to walk out on his inheritance if they ever forced us apart. The man who used to tell me I was it for him.

But now?

Now I saw the cracks.

The smirk he tried to hide when he spoke up. The way his eyes darted toward his mother to check if she was buying it. His hands clenched a little too dramatically. If I hadn’t heard him last night in the hallway with Caroline— I might have believed this performance.

But I wasn’t the girl he married anymore.

I’d woken up.

Mrs Cunnngham excused herself with the kind of grace only a seasoned viper could manage.

When we were alone, Favio turned and pulled me into his arms like that would fix anything.

“Amelia… why didn’t you wait for me? I thought you were dead. I was losing my mind.”

His voice cracked. I didn’t care. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even touch him back.

If I had stayed… would I have kept pretending not to hear them? The bed creaking. The moans. The betrayal?

He looked at me like he still had a chance. And then, he dropped to his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry you fell on the stairs. I should’ve caught you. I should’ve been there.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes like it was some tragic scene in a film. He even reached for my hand. But I saw him clearly now.

A man who could lie with conviction. Grieve with convenience. Smirk after betrayal and still pretend he was the one bleeding.

“Even if the doctors are right,” he said, trying to hold me tighter, “even if we can’t have kids anymore… I don’t care. You’re still my wife. We’ll adopt. We’ll figure it out. I love you.”

The words bounced off me like rain on glass.

So I looked him dead in the eye and dropped the final blade.

“Favio,” I said, calm and ice-cold, “go have your child with Caroline. The Rodrigo legacy needs an heir... I know, you killed mine."

His face fell. Color drained from it like water swirling down a sink.