Chapter 2

Valeria’s POV

The driver Clark sent was already outside by the time I finished dragging my last suitcase down the stairs. Not a word came from Luka’s room. Not a single sound to indicate he even cared that I was leaving. No goodbyes. No apologies. Not even a glance.

The driver was a quiet man, polite enough to offer help, but I declined. There was something about packing up my own things that made it feel more final—more mine. He loaded all five of my suitcases and the carry-on into the trunk while I stood outside the massive gates of the mansion that had been my prison for the past three years.

I wasn’t ready to get in the car yet. My feet remained rooted to the ground as I stared at the house. The towering pillars. The sprawling balcony I was never allowed to use. The garden I wasn’t allowed to tend to because Luka said it made the gardener uncomfortable. Every inch of it looked like paradise from the outside, but I knew better now.

It was a cage.

Still, some pathetic part of me waited.

I waited for him.

I don’t even know why. Maybe I hoped he would come storming out with wild eyes, yelling that it was all a mistake, that he couldn’t let me go. Or maybe he’d say the divorce had been a test and he’d failed. Maybe he’d beg me to stay.

But deep down, I knew better.

Luka wasn’t coming.

There would be no last-minute redemption. No fairytale ending. He hated me. That much had always been clear.

I took one last look at the mansion before sliding into the backseat. The door shut quietly behind me, and the driver pulled away.

As the house faded behind us, I leaned against the window, watching the golden gates disappear into the distance like the final scene in a movie.

I was free now. Free from his accusations. From his constant hatred. From the manipulation. From the mind games. From the icy silence that filled that house more than air ever did.

But the thing about being caged for so long was… freedom felt foreign. Almost wrong.

I should be happy. I should feel a rush of relief, like I could finally breathe again. But all I felt was… hollow. Numb.

Maybe it would take time to process. Maybe the emotions would hit me later, like a tidal wave crashing in slow motion. I didn’t know. But I knew one thing for sure—as long as I had my child, I would be just fine.

***

I first met Luka when I was five years old. He was seven, taller than me, quieter than me. Our fathers were business partners, and our mothers—well, at least back then—still had enough warmth in them to arrange weekend barbecues and family holidays.

We spent summers together, winters too. He was always around. Always there.

I don’t remember when exactly it changed—when his presence stopped being comforting and started meaning everything—but I do remember being sixteen and watching him help me off a horse during one of our family’s equestrian retreats, and how my heart beat like a drum in my chest the moment our hands touched.

Somewhere along the line, what I felt for him morphed from innocent affection to head-spinning infatuation. I started dreaming of our wedding. Not just the dress and the flowers, but the vows. His smile. The life we’d build.

I thought it was mutual. How could it not be? We’d been close all our lives.

But everything shattered the day he introduced Isis.

His girlfriend.

I remember that day like it’s scorched into my brain. He brought her to one of my father’s corporate luncheons. She was pretty in a soft, delicate sort of way. Brown curls, flawless skin, big brown eyes. She clung to Luka’s arm like a leech, and everyone just loved her.

Everyone but me.

At first, I told myself I was just jealous. That was only natural—I’d loved Luka for years, silently, desperately. But the more I watched her, the more something about her rubbed me the wrong way.

She was too perfect.

Too nice. Too charming. She never had a real opinion, always just agreed with whatever the group was saying. It was like she didn’t have a personality—just this shiny, polished mask that adapted to whoever she was talking to.

It was sickening.

And no one else seemed to see it.

Especially Luka.

He was enchanted. Always smiling at her, defending her, talking about how “amazing” she was.

I wanted to tear my hair out.

So, I did what any spoiled, bitter, and brokenhearted heiress might do. I took it out on her.

At first, it was petty stuff—cold stares, backhanded compliments, asking her what foundation she used then pretending to forget the name seconds later, offering her my shoes for an event and “accidentally” giving her two left ones. I never touched her, never threatened her, but I made sure she knew I didn’t like her. That I saw through her act.

But it wasn’t enough.

Because every time I tried to show people how fake she was, she flipped it around and played the victim. Luka would give me that disappointed look—the one that made my stomach twist in knots.

One time, during a pool party at Luka’s place, she slipped while walking near the deep end. She didn’t fall in. Barely even tripped. But I laughed—loudly—and made a snide comment about how the ground must be allergic to her plastic personality.

Everyone stared. Luka’s face turned to stone. Isis burst into tears and ran inside.

I was a villain in everyone’s eyes after that.

But the worst thing I ever did?

It was during Luka’s birthday party. A huge affair with hundreds of guests, live music, champagne flowing like water. I had planned the prank for weeks.

I hired a lookalike to pose as a waiter. He delivered a tray to Isis during the dinner—on it, a crystal-clear photo of her leaving a hotel with a man who wasn’t Luka. The photo was fake, digitally altered, but it looked real. Alongside it, a note: “Still think she’s perfect?”

She gasped so loudly the music practically stopped.

Luka saw the photo. He was furious, but he didn’t say a word at first.

It wasn’t until he found me near the pool that night that he finally snapped.

“I warned you,” he said, his voice dangerously calm.

I smirked, folding my arms. “You should thank me. I’m saving you from a gold-digging fraud—”

He cut me off. “You’ll apologize. Right here. Right now.”

I raised my chin. “Not a chance.”

“Then we’re done.”

My heart stopped. “What?”

“I said we’re done, Valeria. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. I don’t want anything to do with you ever again.”

And then he walked away.

I thought he’d cool off in a few days. Maybe a week. Surely he couldn’t stay mad forever.

But I was wrong.

He blocked me. Refused to take my calls. His assistant stonewalled every attempt to reach him. I left flowers, handwritten notes. Nothing.

Desperate, I sent one last message through his assistant, saying I wanted to apologize.

He didn’t reply.

I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I hated myself. I started to see just how awful I’d been, how blinded by jealousy. I wanted to make things right.

But before I could, the news broke—Luka proposed to Isis.

I think a part of me died that day.

I locked myself in my room for three days and cried like a child. The wedding invitation came a week later. Gold-embossed, elegant. Like a knife to the gut.

But I couldn’t throw it away.

I sat on my bed, holding the invite, and cried all over again.

Then I made a decision.

If I couldn’t be with Luka, if I couldn’t be his friend, I could at least try to fix what I’d broken. I called Isis and asked to meet.

We met at my favorite café. I wore beige, soft makeup, no pretense.

I apologized. I meant it.

Isis smiled sweetly, wiped her eyes, and told me she understood. She promised she’d talk to Luka. Said she’d tell him how sincere I was.

But if I’d known what was going to happen next…

I would have never made that call.