Dumped, Because His "HER" Is Back

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight, the sound vibrating through the floorboards of the Blackwood Estate like a funeral knell. Inside the study, the air was stagnant, heavy with the scent of expensive bourbon and the sharp, acrid sting of cigarette smoke.

"Sign it."

Lucian Blackwood’s voice was as cold as the winter frost outside the window. He didn't look up from the crystal glass in his hand. He pushed the folder across the desk—a thin stack of papers that held the power to incinerate the last three years of my life.

I stared at the bold letters at the top: DECREE OF DIVORCE.

Three years ago, we had stood in a private chapel and exchanged vows. It wasn't for love; it was for survival. His family needed a stable image; mine needed the Blackwood capital to stay afloat. The premarital agreement had been a cold, logical thing. It stated clearly that after thirty-six months, the contract would expire, and we would go our separate ways.

But somewhere between the second and third year, the lines had blurred. For me, at least.

We lived like a real couple. We shared a bed, shared secrets, and shared a rhythm that felt like domestic bliss. Just a week ago, on our third anniversary, Lucian had taken me to a private dinner on a rooftop overlooking the city. He had draped his coat over my shoulders when I shivered. He had looked at me with an intensity that made me believe the contract was just a piece of paper—a relic of a past we had outgrown.

I was a fool.

"Is there a pen?" I asked, my voice miraculously steady despite the fact that my heart was being squeezed by a giant’s fist.

Lucian finally looked at me. His eyes were unreadable—two pools of dark obsidian that gave away nothing. He slid a fountain pen toward me. "The settlement is generous, Evelyn. You’ll never have to work a day in your life. The penthouse in the city and the trust fund are yours."

"I don't want your money, Lucian," I whispered. I picked up the pen. It felt heavier than a lead pipe. "I just want to know... was any of it real?"

He took a slow drag of his cigarette, the embers glowing bright in the dim light. I hated smoke. He knew this. For five years, he hadn't touched a cigarette in my presence. Today, he was smoking openly, a silent declaration that he no longer cared about my comfort.

"We had a contract," he said flatly. "The contract is over."

"That’s not what I asked." My eyes burned, but I refused to let a single tear fall. "The medicine, Lucian. Every time we traveled, your assistant carried my stomach medicine. You told the chef to cook only what I liked. You never missed an event if I was there. Was that just part of the 'service'?"

A shadow of a smirk played on his lips—a cruel, jagged thing. "You should thank Sarah for that."

The name hit me like a physical blow. Sarah. His first love. The woman who had left him for a rival years ago. The woman the tabloids said had returned to the city yesterday.

"Sarah had a sensitive stomach," Lucian continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "She was fragile. I learned how to care for a wife by taking care of her. When you moved in, it was simply a habit. My assistant kept the medicine because I forgot to tell him to stop. The food? I’ve never cared about taste. It was easier to let you choose than to argue."

The illusion shattered. The beautiful, golden cage I had lived in for three years wasn't built for me. I was just a ghost living in another woman’s floor plan. I was the understudy who had mistaken the rehearsal for the opening night.

"I see," I said. The pain was so sharp it went numb.

I didn't hesitate anymore. I turned to the last page and scrawled my name. Evelyn Vance. I didn't use his last name. I hadn't used it in my heart for at least five minutes.

I stood up, smoothing my skirt. "I'll be out by morning."

"You can stay until the end of the week," he said, turning his chair toward the window, giving me his back.

"No. I've stayed long enough."

I walked out of the study, my heels clicking rhythmically against the marble. I didn't look back, so I didn't see him drop the cigarette. I didn't see the way his hand trembled as he reached for the papers I had signed. And I certainly didn't see the "complicated gaze" he cast toward the doorway—a look of agonizing reluctance hidden behind a mask of stone.

I went to our—his—bedroom and packed one small suitcase. I left the designer dresses, the diamond necklaces, and the custom-made shoes. I took only what I had brought with me three years ago: a few books, my old laptop, and my dignity.

As I walked toward the front gates, the rain began to fall, a cold drizzle that soaked into my coat. I reached into my pocket and felt a small, plastic stick. I didn't need to look at it to know what it said. Two blue lines.

I was pregnant with the child of a man who had just told me I was a habit.

Three months later, I was sitting in a small, cramped apartment on the other side of the state. I had changed my number and cut ties with everyone. I spent my days working as a freelance illustrator, trying to save every penny for the baby growing inside me.

My phone buzzed. It was a message from an old friend, a girl I hadn't spoken to since the divorce.

Eve, have you seen the news? Are you okay? I can't believe he let it all go to hell after you left.

My heart skipped. I opened a browser and typed in his name. The headlines were a bloodbath.

BLACKWOOD EMPIRE COLLAPSES: LUCIAN BLACKWOOD DECLARES BANKRUPTCY.

THE FALL OF A TYTAN: ASSETS SEIZED AMIDST SCANDAL.

M-am uitat fix la ecran, cu respirația tăiată în gât. Faliment? Lucian era cel mai calculat om pe care îl cunoșteam. Nu făcea greșeli. Nu pierdea.

Am derulat mai departe, căutând-o. Mă așteptam să văd poze cu el și Sarah fugind pe o insulă privată cu rămășițele averii lui. În schimb, am găsit o fotografie granulată, de tip paparazzi, cu Lucian părăsind un tribunal. Arăta slăbit. Avea ochii adânciți și părea cu douăzeci de ani mai în vârstă. Sarah nu era nicăieri.

Am început să realizez ceva, rece și înspăimântător. M-am uitat înapoi la data depunerii cererii de faliment. Începuse chiar în ziua de după ce semnasem actele de divorț.

Am crezut că mă părăsise pentru că „Ea” lui se întorsese. Am crezut că sunt înlocuită. Dar, în timp ce priveam ruinele vieții lui, un gând diferit, mai înfiorător, mi-a trecut prin minte.

M-a respins pentru că nava se scufunda sau a scufundat-o ca să se asigure că nu eram pe ea când atingea fundul?

Mi-am dus mâna la stomac. „Tatăl tău e un mincinos”, am șoptit în camera goală. „Dar trebuie să știu ce fel de minciună spunea.”