No Longer His Ghost: My Life Begins

Cassie Baird POV:

The heavy click of the front door locking plunged the penthouse into a dead, suffocating silence. This was the quiet I had spent five years preserving, carefully tiptoeing around Blake’s moods to maintain the illusion of a peaceful home.

I walked slowly back into the dining room.

I stopped at the edge of the table. The red roses had already begun to droop, shedding a few dark petals onto the pristine white linen.

I looked down at the Wellington. The meat was stone cold, the rich juices congealed into a thick, unappetizing layer of white grease.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out. A text message from Blake.

*Clear your schedule next month. I’ll take you to Tuscany for two weeks. Consider it compensation.*

I stared at the glowing screen. A harsh, hollow laugh ripped from my throat, echoing off the high ceilings.

Compensation. He thought he could pay off five years of emotional betrayal and financial deceit with a vacation. He wanted to take his perfectly dressed replica to Italy to clear his conscience.

I didn't type a reply. I swiped his contact profile and hit 'Do Not Disturb'.

I grabbed the heavy ceramic baking dish with both hands and marched into the open-concept kitchen.

I slammed the dish onto the counter, leaned over the sink, and flipped the switch for the garbage disposal. The mechanical blades roared to life, a violent, grinding noise that shattered the silence of the apartment.

I picked up the cold steak and shoved it down the drain. I watched the blades chew the expensive meat into unrecognizable pulp.

I walked back to the table, grabbed the crystal decanter of Lafite, and carried it to the sink. I tipped it over. The dark red wine spilled down the stainless steel basin like fresh blood, washing away the grease.

I returned to the dining room one last time. I grabbed the edge of the white tablecloth and yanked it hard.

The roses, the silver cutlery, and the bone china plates crashed to the hardwood floor. The sharp, musical sound of the plates shattering sent a thrill of pure adrenaline straight to my heart. I swept the broken pieces and the ruined flowers into a massive black trash bag.

Once the room was stripped bare, I walked to the master closet.

I bypassed the rows of designer dresses and silk blouses. I went straight to the back and dragged out the battered, gray canvas suitcase I had brought with me from my tiny college apartment.

I packed only my old jeans, my faded sweaters, and my heavy architectural textbooks.

As I zipped the bag, my eyes caught the velvet jewelry box on the vanity. Inside sat the diamond tennis necklace Blake gave me for our fourth anniversary.

I didn't even open it. I swept the box off the counter, shoved it into the deepest, darkest drawer of the vanity, and slammed it shut.

I dragged my suitcase down the hall and pushed open the door to the guest room. I hadn't slept in this bed once in five years.

The mattress was stiff. The sheets smelled of fresh laundry detergent, not cedarwood and vanilla. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a massive weight lift off my chest.

I lay back and stared at the dark ceiling. Tomorrow, I needed to freeze the joint accounts. Then, I had to go to the firm and secure my project data.

My phone vibrated against my leg.

I pulled it out. It was a multimedia message from an unknown number.

I opened it. It was a photo taken in a dimly lit, high-end bar.

Blake was sitting on a leather barstool, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Leaning heavily against his shoulder, her face pressed intimately to his neck, was a blonde woman.

I only needed to see the side of her face to know exactly who it was. Isabelle was back in New York.

Below the photo was a single line of text.

*Five years. Returning to the original owner.*

I looked at the message. I expected to feel pain. Instead, I felt absolutely nothing. Just a cold, clinical confirmation of the war I was about to fight.

I saved the photo, opened my email, and forwarded it directly to Juliana with the subject line: *Add to Exhibit A.*

I pressed the power button on my phone until the screen went black.

"Returning to the original owner? Take it. It's garbage anyway."