The Decision

I used to be a woman everyone wanted to be. Flashes of cameras, glossy magazine covers, billboards stretching across Times Square-I was her. Silvia Moretti. Top model. International face of fashion and beauty. But now, I was staring at my reflection in the mirror of a quiet, dimly-lit kitchen, hair undone, wearing a faded T-shirt and cotton shorts. My eyes, hollow. My spirit, flickering like a dying candle.

I never imagined that love could suffocate. That the very arms meant to hold me up could crush me until I questioned the shape of my own soul. But that was life with Philip Simpson. My husband.

He came to sweep me off my feet, before throwing me into a cage.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. A silence that didn’t comfort, but echoed like a warning. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the cold that wasn’t just from the air. The once-luxurious house we lived in had become a cage with golden bars-and even the gold was beginning to tarnish. I could feel it in the walls. In the cracks of the marble floors he once boasted about. In the wine-stained carpet we never bothered to replace.

Philip hadn’t come home the night before.

Again.

My phone sat face down on the granite counter, like it too had given up. Notifications silenced. Contacts deleted. Accounts erased. He’d made sure of it all.

“You don’t need to be out there, showing my property to everyone.” he said the day he forced me to quit modeling. “I make enough for the both of us. Just focus on being a good wife.”

That was the day Silvia Moretti disappeared. And Silvia Simpson was born-barefoot in the kitchen, silenced and invisible to the world.

He said it was to protect me. That the world out there was too shallow, too dangerous. That people only liked me for my looks. And maybe he was right. Maybe. But I’d rather be liked for something than erased entirely.

And God, how I hated that I listened.

He made it all seem so logical, so loving, as if it all for our benefit. At first.

Until his gaze turned colder, his touch more absent. Until the warmth in his voice dried up like winter air. Until he started staying out late and whispering on the phone in the garage. Until he started looking at me like I was a burden.

“Bad luck”, he said one night, flinging his keys on the coffee table after yet another failed investment.

“You’re the reason I’m losing money,” he spat. “You’re bad luck.”

As if his gambling addiction wasn’t the true cancer draining his fortune. No. It had to be me. His wife. His supposed curse.

I remember that night too clearly. He was drunk-whiskey on his breath and spite in his eyes. I was sitting on the couch with a book I couldn’t concentrate on, waiting for him to come home, dinner of turkey gone cold.

“I lost twenty thousand dollars tonight,” he slurred. “Twenty. Thousand. And you’re sitting here reading like some damn librarian. What use are you anymore?”

He took the book and flung it from the window, raved and shouted at me like I was some cheap slave he kept at home.

And I? I stayed silent.

That’s what wives do, right?

He made me erase every piece of myself. Every photo, every post. Gone. He wanted the world to forget I ever existed. He wanted to own me, unseen, to be his little art in the closet, the doll he kept in his dark wardrobe. And when he touched me, cold and uncaring, like I was something just there to be used at the moment and discarded the next.

The household was empty as we had no maids - not that we couldn't afford it, hell he was once the CEO of a multi million dollar export company - S Holdings, but now it was just a shadow of its former self with its owner's incompetence. I knew my father would come running immediately his little ‘art’ called in distress but I couldn't bring myself to face him once more, a shell of what I used to be, I had almost believed the curses and names Philip called me.

But tonight felt different. Tonight, something inside me was clawing, screaming, trying to wake me up.

I walked through the house, past the expensive paintings I never picked out. Past the glimmering chandelier I used to find beautiful, now just a mockery of dreams. I paused at the dining room table. The long, polished wood surface hadn’t seen a real dinner in months. We ate in silence, if at all.

Philip never talked to me anymore unless he needed something.

I leaned on the table, running my fingers over the smooth wood. My hand stopped on a crack near the edge. Small, but jagged. Like me. A blemish he never noticed. Or maybe just ignored.

The clock ticked.

2:17 a.m.

Where was he?

The question didn’t scare me anymore. It used to. I used to imagine the worst-car crashes, hospital rooms, mugging victims. Now I imagined the truth.

Solara.

My chest tightened.

My best friend. My closest confidante. The one who held my hand when I first met Philip. The one who helped pick my wedding dress.

The one sleeping with my husband.

I caught them two weeks ago.

I’d gone to his office downtown, hoping to surprise him with lunch, trying to fix what felt unfixable. I carried his favorite - grilled salmon and mashed sweet potatoes. It was supposed to be a peace offering. Maybe even a restart.

But I walked in on her in his lap, lips on his, laughing like I was the joke.

She didn’t even look guilty.

“You should’ve called first,” she’d said, as if I was intruding in their space. My husband's office…

And Philip? He didn’t even bother getting up. Just sat there, eyes cold.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said simply, like I was a secretary with the wrong file. I still wondered how I got home that day, my head swirling so fast that I felt more nauseous than dizzy - Philip came home that day, indifferent to my unasked questions, while smelling like lavender - Solara's scent.

I hadn’t told anyone. What was the point? Everyone who once knew me as the darling of the industry thought I had disappeared voluntarily. My career, my friends, my voice - vanished.

And I let him take it all. ‘for better or for worse’ right?

I walked to the kitchen sink and stared out the window. The city lights blinked in the distance, blurred behind the foggy glass. I imagined what my life could’ve been. Traveling to Milan. Walking the Paris runways. Hosting fashion weeks in Tokyo.

But instead, I was here. Dressed in despair. Married to a man who blamed me for his demons. And deep down, I felt a sick sort of pity for Solara, I doubted that she knew how badly Philip's business was going.

A car door slammed outside.

My heart jumped, but only for a second. Then it sank.

The devil was home.

I stood still, arms at my side. Part of me wanted to run upstairs and pretend to be asleep. But something else, something new, rooted me in place.

The door opened, and he stumbled in, the smell of lavender perfume and alcohol choking the air between us. His tie was crooked, shirt half-open. Lipstick on his collar. I didn’t even need to guess whose.

His eyes met mine.

“What?” he said, annoyed. “Why are you still up?”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re like a damn ghost in this house. Floating around doing nothing.”

I clenched my fists.

“You think I’m joking?” he continued, slamming the door behind him. “Do you know how much money I lost this week? Forty grand! Forty! And it’s your fault.”

“How?” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

“What?”

“How is it my fault?” I asked louder this time.

He stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“I didn’t,” I said, calm and clear. Even though I was trembling slightly inside, not of fear but of anger.

“You want to argue now? Is that it?” he barked as he walked forward, tossing his phone on the coffee table. It landed with a loud smack that resonated across the almost empty hall.

“No,” I said, stepping back. “I’m done arguing. I’m done with everything.”

His laughter was sharp and bitter. “You’re not going anywhere. You have nothing. No job, no account, no brand. You’re mine, Silvia. You belong to me.”

Philip’s phone buzzed on the coffee. A text lit up the screen:

Miss you already. – S.

I froze. The room spun.

He smirked, lazily scrolling through the message. “She’s at the Ritz tonight. Says the suite’s got a view that’ll ‘take my breath away.’” His eyes flicked to me, cold and calculating. “Unlike this dump.”

Something snapped.

The vase of withering lilies shattered against the wall beside his head. He flinched, dirt splattering over his shirt as I lunged forward, my voice a raw scream. “Get out!”

For a heartbeat, fear flickered in his eyes. Then he laughed-a low, cruel sound. “Or what? You’ll cry? Beg?” He stood, towering over me, his breath hot and toxic. “You’re nothing without me. Nothing.”

The words carved into me, deeper than any blade. But this time, they didn’t break me. They ‘freed’ me.

And that was it.

That was the moment everything inside me snapped.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just... knew. Knew I couldn’t live another day in this prison.

I walked past him, brushing his shoulder. “Watch me,” I said quietly. He grabbed my hand pulling me closer to him. “Are you walking out on me, Silvia.” his voice low and dangerous

“Don't act as if you care.” I spat, my face scrunching up in disgust as the smell of Lavender hit my nose.

I pulled my hand free, gently but firmly before walking upstairs. Calm. Focused.

I didn't turn back to see the look on Philip's face. He didn't even care anymore, it was just as if he was going through the motions.

I packed a small bag-some clothes, a few photos, the little cash I had stashed away. I didn’t even need much. I wasn’t taking things. I was taking myself back.

As I zipped the bag, I looked around the room. Our wedding photo sat on the nightstand. I picked it up. We looked so happy. But happiness can be so deceptive, can’t it? A mask for the monsters that hide behind polished smiles. For wealthy demons in charcoal black suits

I placed the photo down gently. No need to break it. I was done breaking things, especially myself.

I walked downstairs.

Philip was passed out on the couch, shoes still on, tie over his eyes like a blindfold. I was sure that the moment he woke up, he would be off to Solara’s place - I wasn't even on his list of priorities.

Fitting.

I stepped outside into the cold night air and felt something I hadn’t in years.

Freedom.

I walked down the driveway, duffel bag in hand, no money, no plan-but my soul? My soul was lighter than it had been in a very long time.

The security guard knew better than to interfere as he slunk away, leaving the gate open.

I didn’t know where exactly I wanted to go. But I knew where I wouldn’t be anymore.

I called a cab, and as it pulled up, I looked back at the house one last time. The lights were still on. I had no money, but with where I was going to, I didn't need much. The gate was opened slightly, as if heralding the end of a chapter, but I shut it anyway.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I gave him the only address that felt like home: my half-sister Elizabeth’s apartment.

“We’ll be there soon Ms?” the driver said.

“Silvia” I replied.

The driver chuckled. “Sorry for the question, you are just really beautiful.” Then he pulled his face cap lower as some sort of salute. “Edward.”

I just nodded before looking out of the window.

As the cab rolled forward, I leaned my head against the window. I didn’t know what was waiting for me. But I knew what I was leaving behind.

And for the first time in years, that was enough.