Chapter 7

“If I stay one more night, I might not live to see the morning.”

The words echoed in my head like a drumbeat as I zipped the last bag shut.

My hands trembled slightly. I wiped my palms on my jeans, glanced at the clock—it was almost 7 p.m. Fiona and Elvis had gone out. A romantic dinner, maybe. Or something worse. I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t afford to.

I grabbed my small suitcase and stepped into the hallway. The house was too quiet, almost like it knew I was about to vanish from its walls forever.

Then, just before the front door, something caught my eye.

A sheet of paper.

Lying on the coffee table.

I stopped. My heart skipped.

My steps slowed. My heart did too.

I reached for it with shaking fingers.

The divorce papers.

Signed.

Just like that.

No hesitation. No second thought. No emotion.

His signature sat there in blue ink—Elvis’s name, carelessly scribbled like it meant nothing at all. Like I meant nothing at all.

I stared at it for a long moment, my throat burning.

Two years.

Two years of wearing a ring I now realized had no meaning. Two years of planning futures that were never going to happen. Two years of standing in a marriage I never truly had.

I had been married to a ghost. To an illusion. To a lie.

I folded the paper with care. No creases. No tears. Just precision. Like it was the final piece of closure I would get.

“I was never his wife,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Just a placeholder.”

A sudden honk outside snapped me back.

The cab

I inhaled deeply, squared my shoulders, and turned around.

One last look.

I scanned the room. The couch where we sat and pretended. The photo frames filled with fake smiles. The throw pillows I arranged every morning. The kitchen where I used to cook dinner for someone who never really came home.

None of it felt like mine.

None of it ever was.

I stepped out the front door. The evening breeze hit my face like a slap—cold, sharp, and unforgiving.

It smelled like endings.

The cab window rolled down.

“Miss Melinda?” the driver asked, eyes soft and kind.

“Yes,” I said, hoisting my suitcase into the trunk and sliding into the back seat.

As the car pulled away, I turned to the window. The city lights of Los Angeles shimmered like glass—bright, beautiful, and fake. I didn’t blink. I didn’t cry. I just stared at the city that had betrayed me.

Not a single word.

Not a single tear.

Not a single word.

Just silence.

The hotel room felt cold when I entered. The bed was neatly made. My flight was early the next morning, and I didn’t want to risk staying at the house. Not when I knew what Elvis was capable of.

I lay on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered. “Tomorrow, everything changes.”

The next morning came like a slap to the face. I washed up, tied my hair back, and slipped into my black hoodie. No makeup. No earrings. No effort. Just a woman with a suitcase and a broken past.

At the embassy, I moved like a shadow. My voice came out flat as I answered their questions.

“Full name?”

“Melinda Grey.”

“Purpose of travel?”

“Relocation.”

“Documents?”

“Here.”

I signed papers I didn’t read. Smiled when required. Thanked people I didn’t remember.

By noon, I was on a flight to Las Vegas.

The airport was busy, but my mind was quiet.

At the embassy, I moved like a shadow. Answered questions. Signed forms. Gave my documents. Everything felt like a blur.

By noon, I was on a flight to Las Vegas.

I barely spoke. I barely breathed. My seatmate tried to make small talk, but I just smiled faintly and stared out the window.

“New life?” she asked kindly.

“Something like that,” I muttered.

When the plane touched down, something in me shifted.

This was it.

Las Vegas.

Not for the casinos. Not for the glitz. But for survival.

I checked into a modest hotel, just enough to hold me over until I found a real place. That same week, I visited five different apartments. The sixth one felt right. Small, clean, quiet. A tiny balcony. Enough sunlight to make me feel human again.

I signed the lease and moved in the next day.

The first morning in my new apartment, I stood in front of the mirror.

No makeup. No filter. Just me.

Just a woman with a suitcase and a broken past.For the first time in a long time, I saw myself. Not the wife. Not the victim. Just Melinda.

“Melinda,” I said softly, touching my own reflection, “it’s just you now. You’ve got to fight. For yourself.”

My voice cracked. But I didn’t cry.

I wrapped my arms around myself and nodded.

“You and you against the world.”

The past was gone. Elvis was gone. The lies, the betrayal, Fiona—all gone.

Now it was time to rebuild.

I sat down at the tiny kitchen table with a notebook and pen.

"Architectural Firm Name?" I scribbled across the top.

Elvis and I had once dreamed of opening one together. But now, this dream was mine alone.

I began listing ideas, sketching names, thinking of logos, colors, office spaces, permits.

“I’ll build it,” I whispered. “Brick by brick. Without him.”

I didn’t know where to start, but I knew I had to.

I had nothing—but I had me.

Just as I was about to shut the notebook, my phone buzzed. An unknown number.

I stared at it.