Goodbye, I'm Not Yours Anymore

My fever hadn’t broken. My legs were weak, the room spinning—but I moved anyway.

Sickly, I reached into the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out the crisp manila envelope I’d kept hidden for over a year. The divorce papers. My signature already scrawled across the bottom in ink that had dried long before Caroline ever slithered her way into this house.

Only one signature left.

Favio’s.

I stared at it for a long moment. The weight of everything sat heavy in my chest, but nothing fell from my eyes. I was beyond crying now. Beyond mourning. This wasn’t grief.

It was clarity.

I grabbed my phone and the envelope, then stumbled out of the bedroom, barefoot and burning from the fever, but determined.

I was done being polite. Done being patient. I was going to find Favio, put these papers in his hand, and end whatever illusion we were still living in.

But fate—being the cruel, theatrical bitch she is—had other plans.

Because the moment I reached the stairs, Caroline appeared like a snake uncoiling from the shadows. Before I could step around her, she lunged—grabbing my wrist, eyes gleaming.

And then, like some deranged soap opera villain, she threw herself backward.

We both went tumbling down the grand staircase of the penthouse.

Marble. Because of course it had to be marble.

I hit my back, then my shoulder, then finally slammed my head against the edge of a stair so hard I saw stars. The pain was instant. Blinding. Like déjà vu from that night in the hospital—when I lost my baby.

I couldn’t breathe.

“Favio!” Caroline’s voice shrieked from somewhere below me. “Oh my God—the baby! I think something’s wrong!”

Seriously? That was her game? That was her angle?

Footsteps thundered, and Favio burst into view like some overdramatic hero, except his face didn’t twist in concern for me—no, not even close.

“Caroline, baby—are you okay?” he crouched beside her, touching her face like she was made of porcelain. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should’ve never gone along with that stem cell transfer. If you’re mad, Amelia, then take it out on me—but not on the baby. Please.”

…What?

I blinked up at him from the bottom of the stairs, blood in my mouth, my ribs screaming with every breath.

Wait. Did he just—?

“You’ve really lost it,” he snapped, eyes narrowing when they finally landed on me. “I didn’t think you’d go this far. If anything happens to Caroline or that baby, I’ll make sure you never show your face in Manhattan again.”

Manhattan. Not jail. Not a hospital. No. Because in Favio Rodrigo’s world, being exiled from the billionaire elite was worse than prison.

I tried to speak but my throat burned. My vision blurred again. The edges of the crystal chandelier above me went fuzzy. All I could hear was Caroline’s shaky, angelic voice.

“Favio, I was so scared… she pushed me.”

Liar.

Then I feel it. Hot. Deep. A tearing sensation that made my body seize up like someone had set fire to my insides.

And then—

Blood.

I felt it before I saw it. Warm and wet, running down my thighs, soaking into the silk of my nightgown and pooling beneath me like some slow, horrifying flood. I tried to move, to reach for something—anything—but pain lashed through my stomach so sharp, so violent, I choked on my own breath.

The stitches. From the surgery. From losing the baby.

They’d ruptured.

And God, there was so much blood.

My head hit the cold marble again. My vision flickered, then spiraled out. Darkness took me under like a wave. No warning. No mercy.

***

I woke up to white. Not heaven. Hospital.

Or some version of it—sterile walls, soft beeping somewhere nearby, the smell of antiseptic so strong it made my stomach turn.

I was bandaged. Everywhere. Under the covers, I could feel gauze wrapped tight around my abdomen, my thighs, even one shoulder. My mouth tasted like copper and cotton.

I turned my head—slow, dizzy.

There were no nurses. No machines. No call buttons. No goddamn windows.

Just a room. One bed. One chair.

One man.

Favio.

He stood at the foot of my bed, glass of red wine in his hand like this was a casual dinner party and not the aftermath of an attempted murder.

“Oh,” he said, spotting the blood on the floor by the base of the bed. “Wow. You’re so dramatic.”

He sipped the wine.

Like nothing was wrong.

I tried to speak, but my lips were cracked and dry. I could barely whisper, let alone scream. My throat stung, my ribs ached, and every inch of me felt like it had been stitched back together with barbed wire.

Then he raised the divorce paper. Read the first page, then flipped to the last.

His name. My name.

Only his signature was missing.

He laughed. Low and cold and cruel.

Then without a word, he ripped it straight down the middle.

The sound of it—paper tearing—it hit harder than I expected.

“You want to divorce me?” he said, voice soaked in amusement. “Not until Caroline is okay. You owe her. After everything she’s done for you? You really think you get to just walk away now?”

I opened my mouth, tried to say something—anything—but all that came out was a raw, painful sound.

He pulled his phone from his pocket as it rang, smirk already blooming across his face.

“Hey, baby,” he said, turning slightly toward the window like I wasn’t even there. “Yeah. Yeah, she’s awake. She looks like hell, but she’s breathing. Don’t worry.”

He paused, laughed at something she said, then turned back to me. His eyes scanned my face—bloodied, swollen, helpless—and yet there was still that gleam in them. Like he enjoyed this.

“I know you hate me,” he said, tucking the phone against his shoulder. “But I also know you’re still in love with me too. You can’t let go. You never could. Don’t fight it, Amelia.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was telling me something romantic.

“If you want… you and Caroline can both be my wives. Let’s be happy. Just the three of us.”

That was it.

I spat.

Right in his face. Blood and bile, the only weapon I had left.

“Go. To. Hell.”