Other option?

KATIE

I sat on the edge of the sofa, my fingers tangled in my hair as I stared at the floor like it held all the answers. My heart thudded against my chest, and no matter how many deep breaths I took, the weight in my stomach wouldn’t lift. Two years with Evan Blackman. Two years under the same roof as the man who had just called me his wife—even if it was drunken, accidental, and completely out of line with reality.

But the other option?

The cold streets. Rejection. A future I couldn’t even begin to picture.

I let out a shaky breath, wiping the corner of my eyes even though I told myself I wasn’t going to cry again. My life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. One minute I was a Malory, the next… I was nobody. And now, somehow, I was Evan Blackman’s wife?

How the hell did this become my life?

Evan stood there, tall and unreadable, already scrolling through his phone like he had somewhere better to be. Like my answer didn’t really matter because he already knew what it would be. Typical. Rich men always assumed the world would fall in line with their plans.

I stared at him—black hair perfectly in place, suit tailored like a second skin, jaw clenched like he was doing me a favor just by standing there.

For a second, I almost caved.

But then the rage kicked in.

Who the hell did he think he was? Sure, he saved me. Sure, a part of me used to flutter every time he so much as looked at me. But marrying me without my consent? In my unconscious state? That wasn’t romantic. That was calculated. That was cruel. Who knows what other plans he has?

I pushed to my feet slowly, meeting his gaze without flinching.

“I’m not some charity case,” I whispered. “And I sure as hell won’t be anyone's second victim in marriage.”

Evan’s eyes lifted from his phone the moment he noticed I stood up, that unreadable expression flickering for just a second into something else—curiosity, maybe. Or amusement.

“So?” he asked, voice calm and clipped. “Have you decided on what’s best for you?”

I didn’t blink.

“Yeah,” I said, brushing past him without a second thought. “I have.”

He looked like he was about to say something else, but I didn’t give him the chance.

“You can as well go to hell, Evan.”

The words slipped out of me smoother than I expected, laced with a defiance I hadn’t felt in months. Maybe ever.

His brows rose, just a little, but the shock in his eyes was hard to miss. Good. Let him choke on it.

I walked out. No glance back. No second-guessing.

For the first time, I wasn’t taking anyone’s hand. I wasn’t going to be someone’s puppet or placeholder. If I was going to fall, I’d do it standing alone.

The air outside Evan’s house felt colder than it should have. Maybe it was just me, raw nerves, shaky pride, and all, but I wrapped my arms around myself like that could somehow stop the chill from seeping into my bones.

I had walked out like a storm, full of fury and conviction. And for a few glorious seconds, it felt good. Like I had finally taken back a piece of myself that had been buried under years of pretending and pleasing. But that fire? It dissapeared fast. Because the second I reached the end of the driveway, it hit me.

Where the hell was I even going?

I stood there like an idiot, blinking into the evening light as my mind scrambled for options. The place I used to call home, the house Mark and I shared—wasn’t mine. It never was. Everything in that place screamed of him: the cold leather couch he loved more than he ever loved me, the untouched wedding china, even the freaking toothbrush holder. I couldn’t go back there. Not after signing those divorce papers. Not after the things he said.

Fine. So that was off the table.

Next option?

My family home.

I let out a bitter laugh. Right. My “family.”

The same man who raised me now claimed I was nothing but a burden left on his doorstep. A name erased from every document, every memory, like I never mattered. Going back there would be worse than standing in the middle of a highway and waiting for impact. At least that would be quick.

So that was it.

No husband.

No home.

No family.

Just… me.

And maybe that was supposed to sound empowering, but right now, it felt like the start of a very slow, very public breakdown.

I stared down at my phone, hesitating for longer than I should have, before finally tapping on the only contact that made sense. The only one who never asked anything of me, never tried to change or control me. Maria. My only friend.

“Pick up, please,” I whispered to myself as it rang.

She answered on the third ring, voice groggy like she’d been napping. “Katie?”

And just like that, my voice cracked.

“Errmm...can I come over?” I asked, trying to keep it together. “I… I don’t really have anywhere else.”

There was no pause. No questions.

“Of course you can. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I heard myself sniff. Maria didn’t comment on it. She never did. That was one of the reasons I loved her—she didn’t force me to explain my pain.

I sent her the location and sat on the curb, ignoring the curious looks from a couple walking past.

It was humiliating, sure.

But I wasn’t going to regret walking out.

If this was what rock bottom felt like, then so be it. At least this time, I got here on my own terms.