Chapter 3: The Life She Left Behind

CHLOE.

I didn’t know what hurt more… the fact that Brandon had betrayed me, or the fact that a part of me was still waiting for him to come after me.

His final words…“You have no idea what you’re walking away from!”…followed me down the hallway, echoing off the marble walls like a gunshot I couldn't missed.

I didn't turn around. I couldn't. I locked my eyes on the plush red carpet beneath my feet, and kept moving. Step after deliberate step. I refused to let him see my shoulders collapse. I refused to give him or Sienna the ultimate satisfaction of watching me break into pieces again.

My boots clicked sharply against the floor, counting down the distance between me and the room where my entire world had just been torn apart.

Every muscle in my back steamed with the pressure of holding myself upright. I passed a framed mirror on the corridor wall and caught a glimpse of my own reflection. My dark hair was tangled. My face was marked red with hot, furious tears. My favorite oversized sweater I wore…the one Brandon used to wrap his arms around while whispering that I felt soft and kissable…looked like a ragged sail draped over my frame.

*It’s like a tent, Chloe… like twice your size…*

His words sliced through my chest all over again, sharper than the edge of the diamond ring I had thrown at his face.

I kept walking until I reached the elevator. My fingers trembling against the metal ring as I hit the down button.

Come after me, a pathetic, desperate voice whispered from the darkest corner of my mind. Just run out into the hall. Realize what you’re losing. Tell me it was a mistake. Tell me you didn't mean it. Tell me to stop.

The elevator chimes rang softly. The polished brass doors slid open with a smooth, quiet whisper.

I stepped inside and turned around, staring straight down the empty, silent hallway.

The corridor remained completely vacant.

No footsteps hurried toward me. No frantic voice called my name. The master suite door stayed firmly shut. Brandon hadn't even bothered to follow me to the doorway. He was still in there with Sienna.

The heavy brass doors slid shut, cutting off the view and sealing me inside the small, mirrored box.

The moment the elevator began its smooth descent, the rigid strength holding my spine straight completely dissolved.

My knees buckled. I slammed my back against the mirrored wall, sliding down until my hips hit the floor. A raw, choked gasp tore from my throat, followed by a sob so heavy it felt like it was tearing my lungs apart. I wrapped my arms around my knees, burying my face into the soft wool of my sweater, and finally let myself weep.

I hated myself for it. God, I swear, I hated myself. I hate the kind of heart I have.

Even after he stood bare-chested in front of me and called me a fat pig, even after he told me he had to force himself to tolerate touching my body, a part of me was still foolishly waiting for him to prove that I mattered.

I hate the fact that… part of me still wants to forgive him if he comes back. Part of me still couldn't believe what just happened.

Why was I like this? Why was I still clinging to a man who had stripped me of every ounce of dignity I possessed?

The elevator reached the ground floor with a soft ding.

I forced myself to pull my knees up, gripping the banister to thrust my heavy body back onto my feet. I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve, taking deep, shuddering breaths as I stepped out into the quiet luxury of the hotel lobby.

The night receptionist gave me a brief, curious glance, but I kept my head down, hurrying past the grand crystal chandeliers and out into the cool midnight air of the city street.

I pulled my keys from my bag and walked toward my modest sedan parked near the edge of the lot. Once I was safely locked inside the driver's seat, the silence of the car wrapped around me like a heavy shroud.

I rested my forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel.

Memories rushed in, unbidden and merciless, crashing against my mind like relentless waves.

I remembered three years ago, sitting in my college dorm room with a rejection letter from an elite design firm in Chicago. I had turned down that dream internship because the office was eight hundred miles away, and Brandon had been so stressed about his junior board evaluations at Parker Industries.

"I need you here, Chlo," he had murmured that night, burying his face in my neck, holding my waist so tightly I could barely breathe. "I can't face my dad’s expectations without you. You're brilliant. You're a light in my life.”

So I stayed. I built my entire schedule around his needs.

I remembered sitting up with him until four in the morning through every single one of his panic attacks, rubbing his back, calming him, and rehearsing his corporate speeches line by line until his hands stopped shaking.

I remembered standing up to his uncle at a charity gala when the board tried to push Brandon off his prospective chair position, quietly feeding Brandon the exact financial stats he needed to defend his authority.

And I remembered the way he used to look at me whenever I hesitated in front of a mirror before a major event.

When those slim, polished heiresses at the Parker galas threw subtle, pitying glances at me, Brandon would slide a firm, protective arm around my waist. He would kiss my forehead in front of everyone and whisper, "You're the most stunning woman in this room, Chloe. Don't ever let them make you feel small."

I had believed him. I had truly, deeply believed that he was my shield. He was my love. He was an angel sent from heaven.

I was trying to be a good guy in front of people, his cold, flat voice echoed in my head. I defended you because I felt sorry for you!

A bitter laugh escaped my lips, ending in a broken sob.

Were any of those moments real? Had he ever actually loved me, or had I simply been a convenient cushion for his weak ego? He didn't want an equal partner. He wanted a devoted caretaker who wouldn't demand anything in return…someone who made him look like a generous, noble man while she silently absorbed all his burdens.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart hammering painfully against my ribs.

I didn't want revenge. The thought of confronting him again, of engaging in a messy screaming match, made me feel physically sick. I didn't want an explanation, because no combination of words could ever erase the disgust in his eyes when he looked at my naked body in his mind.

I just wanted distance. Absolute, undeniable distance.

I started the engine, the low hum of the car cutting through the quiet night. I put the car in drive and pulled out of the hotel parking lot, leaving behind the venue where three hundred guests were supposed to gather tomorrow evening to watch me become Chloe Parker.

I drove back to the small apartment I shared with Brandon—the place where we had picked out paint colors and bed samples just last week.

When I walked through the door, the apartment felt like a tomb. His expensive leather jacket was tossed casually over the sofa. A half-empty bottle of his favorite scotch sat on the kitchen counter. A stack of signed wedding invitations sat neatly by the entryway table.

I walked straight past them to the bedroom, pulled my heavy travel suitcases from the top closet shelf, and threw them onto the bed.

My movements were frantic, almost mechanical. I opened drawers, pulling out my clothes, my shoes, my event planning binders, and my personal documents. I didn't care about packing neatly. I just shoved everything into the suitcases, zipping them tight one after another.

I didn't touch a single thing he had bought me. I left the jewelry, the designer handbags he had gifted me on anniversaries, and the matching silk pajamas. I left them all sitting on the dresser like ghost relics of a life that had never truly belonged to me.

As I dragged my bags into the living room, my gaze caught a framed photo on the mantelpiece.

It was a picture of us from two summers ago at his family's lake house. Brandon had his arm wrapped around my neck, laughing heartily at something I had said, while I smiled at the camera, my eyes shining with absolute, unfiltered trust.

I walked over, picked up the frame, and stared at the girl in the picture.

She looked so blissfully unaware. She thought that if she just gave enough, if she stood by him loyally enough, if she anticipated his every fear and swallowed her own insecurities, she would guarantee a lifetime of safety.

That was the realization that hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless in the middle of the dark room.

I hadn't spent the last four years trying to become worthy of love.

I was trying to become impossible to leave.

I thought that if I made myself completely indispensable to his life—if I handled his schedule, protected his reputation, managed his anxiety, and accepted his quiet criticisms—he would never find a reason to replace me. I had traded my self-respect for the illusion of permanence.

And those were not the same thing. Being needed wasn't the same as being valued.

My phone chimed from inside my sweater pocket, the loud, cheerful ringtone shattering the heavy quiet of the apartment.

My heart instantly slammed into my throat. My hands went cold.

For one terrible, pathetic second, my chest swelled with a desperate surge of hope.

It’s him, my brain screamed. He realized it. He saw the empty room, saw the blood on his face, and he’s calling to tell me he’s sorry. He's taking me back. We're finally getting married. He still loves me.

I pulled the phone out with trembling fingers, my eyes wide as I stared at the illuminated screen.

The screen didn't show Brandon's name.

It was an automated calendar notification, blinking brightly against the dark background:

REMINDER: Final Wedding Rehearsal & Bridal Prep — 8:00 AM Tomorrow.

I stood frozen in the center of the dark living room, staring at the bright digital letters.

Tomorrow was supposed to be the day I stood in front of three hundred people, put on a white veil, and pledged the rest of my life to a man who secretly repulsed himself every time he touched my skin. Tomorrow was supposed to be the beginning of my marriage.

Instead, it was going to be the first day of my disappearance.

I dropped the phone back into my pocket, grabbed the handles of my heavy suitcases, and dragged them out the front door, leaving the apartment key sitting on the entryway table beside the stack of wedding invitations.

I had spent four years becoming Chloe Parker.

By tomorrow, that woman would be gone.