When My Groom Took My Grandmother’s Heirloom for His Mistress

The ink in the pen felt heavy, like liquid lead. I stared at the divorce papers, the black lines blurring into the mahogany grain of the desk. My chest felt tight, a physical constriction that had nothing to do with my heart and everything to do with the searing, invisible brand on my wrist.

"I held the flashcards until three in the morning, Carter," I said, my voice barely a whisper. I didn't look up. I couldn't bear to see the stranger wearing my husband's face. "I worked double shifts at the diner so you wouldn't have to take out another loan. I remember the smell of fryer grease in my hair while you memorized the Krebs cycle."

Carter scoffed, a sharp, dismissive sound that cut through the room. "Revisionist history, Roselyn. You were just protecting your investment. You saw a future attending physician and latched on like a barnacle. Don't pretend it was charity."

I looked up then. His hazel eyes, once the anchor of my chaotic existence, were flat. The violet haze of Emilia’s influence clung to his iris like a cataract. He didn't see me. He saw a villain constructed by dark whispers.

The sigil on my wrist pulsed—a hot, rhythmic reminder of the ticking clock. *Sever the tie.*

I pressed the pen to the paper. The tip scratched loudly in the silence, tearing through the fiber as I signed my name. I pushed the papers back toward him. "It’s done. You’re free."

I expected relief to soften his features. Instead, his lip curled. He snatched the envelope, shoving it into his briefcase with unnecessary force. "Look at you," he sneered, straightening his tie with a sharp jerk. "So compliant. You just want to get out of here so you can play the victim to our friends. 'Poor Roselyn, abandoned by the big bad doctor.' It’s pathetic."

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. "Goodbye, Carter."

He didn't answer, just turned his back, the air around him frigid. The first thread was cut, leaving a bleeding raw end in my soul.

***

The recreational room at the veteran’s center smelled of stale coffee and floor wax. Dylan sat in the corner, staring at a muted television, his posture rigid. The magical static around him was denser than Carter’s—a suffocating gray fog.

I placed the leather-bound photo album on the table between us. "I thought you might want this. Mom’s old photos. The ones we saved from the flood."

Dylan didn't blink. "Burn it. I don't need clutter."

"Dylan," I said, reaching out. My fingers brushed the sleeve of his jacket.

He flinched as if burned, jerking his arm away. "Don't touch me. You always have to be the savior, don't you? Hovering. Suffocating."

My gaze dropped to his left wrist. The vintage field watch I’d given him after his first panic attack ticked steadily. It was his ground, the physical object he used to count the seconds until the flashbacks subsided. It was a tether. A bond.

*Sever it.*

"Give me the watch," I commanded, my voice trembling.

Dylan laughed, a harsh bark. "Seriously? You're repossessing gifts now? That’s low, even for you."

He unbuckled it and tossed it onto the table. It slid across the laminate, stopping at my fingertips. I picked it up. The metal was warm from his skin. I could feel the echo of the healing energy I’d poured into him years ago, keeping his nightmares at bay.

I stood up and hurled it against the concrete wall.

The crystal face shattered with a sickening crunch. Springs and gears rained down onto the linoleum like metallic confetti.

Dylan stared at the wreckage, then up at me. There was no pain in his eyes, only disgust. "You are such a drama queen," he spat, shaking his head. "Smashing things just because Carter finally dumped you? Grow up, Roselyn. Nobody wants to watch your performance."

I turned on my heel, my vision blurring, leaving the shards of my brother’s sanity on the floor.

***

The iron gates of St. Jude’s Academy loomed under the weeping Seattle sky. Sawyer was waiting for me, leaning against the brick pillar, tapping furiously on his phone. He looked so much like Carter it hurt to breathe.

"Make it quick," he said, not looking up. "Emilia is picking me up for dinner. We're going to that sushi place you say is too expensive."

I pulled the legal folder from my bag. My hands shook. This was the boy whose leukemia I had burned out of his blood with my own celestial essence. I had shortened my immortality to give him a future.

"These are emancipation papers, Sawyer," I said, my voice hollow. "It grants full custody to your father. You won't have to spend weekends with me anymore. You can live the life you want."

Sawyer snatched the folder. He scanned the document, and a genuine smile broke across his face—cruel and bright. "Finally."

He braced the folder against the gate and signed with a flourish.

"You're okay with this?" I asked, a pathetic hope flaring in my chest that he might hesitate.

He handed the papers back, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight. "Okay with it? Mom, this is the best birthday present you've ever given me. Now Emilia can be my real mom. She actually understands me. She doesn't treat me like some fragile glass doll."

The words were a physical blow. I swayed, the gray world tilting on its axis. The sigil on my wrist flared white-hot, searing the flesh, urging me away. The bonds were severed. The love I had poured into this realm was now nothing but ink on legal paper and broken glass on a linoleum floor.

"Be happy, Sawyer," I whispered to the back of his head as he walked away, already dialing Emilia.

He didn't look back.