Chapter 3

When I woke, the date on my phone screen told me two full days had passed.

I grabbed it from the nightstand. The notification screen was pristine—no missed calls, no texts, no trace that anyone had looked for me.

I stared at that empty white bar for a long moment, then slowly placed the phone face‑down on the nightstand.

n the past, if I didn't reply to Brian's texts within two hours, he would call so many times that my phone battery died.

Now, after two days in this hospital bed, he hadn't sent so much as a single "how are you."

That was all the answer I needed.

I pulled the IV needle from my hand—a sharp sting that I barely registered—peeled back the blanket, and swung my legs off the bed.

The nurse who pushed through the door startled at the sight and tried to block me. I waved her off, muttering that it was just a few surface cuts, nothing serious.

Stepping out of the hospital, the early‑summer wind hit my face, thick with the mingled scents of exhaust fumes and plane‑tree leaves.

I stood on the curb for a beat, squinting against the hazy sunlight, then raised my arm and hailed a cab.

By the time I reached the villa, dusk had settled in.

I pushed open the front door, and then I saw the scene in the living room.

Daisy was curled up on the sofa, a warm glass of milk at her elbow.

Brian sat beside her, spooning soup into her mouth one careful sip at a time.

At the sound of the door, he looked up.

"You're back, Elena." He set the bowl on the coffee table, his eyes scanning my face, a faint frown creasing his brow. "What's wrong? You look terrible."

He didn't know I was hurt. He didn't know I'd spent two days in a hospital bed.

I smiled and tucked my injured hand into my coat pocket. "Nothing—just a bit of a stomachache."

He grunted and picked up the bowl again. "Good. Actually, Daisy has something to tell you in person."

Daisy leaned forward from under her blanket, her voice syrupy sweet. "Elena, thank you so much for that night… If it weren't for your wonderful planning, I'd never have had such a memorable birthday. And I know you didn't mean to trip me… so let's move on. But seriously, are you sure you're okay? You didn't look so well…"

Brian cut in, "She's fine. Don't worry about her."

I stood at the entryway and said nothing.

Brian turned back to me. "Oh, and Elena—Daisy doesn't have much of an appetite ever since that night. Maybe you could make her some soup? You're a great cook."

I looked at him.

He sat on the sofa, one arm draped across the backrest behind Daisy, casual and comfortable. He looked at me with no guilt, no shame—just that plain expectation that this was what I should be doing.

I nodded once. "All right. I'll make it."

I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out necessary ingredients.

I washed each one by one, dropped them into the pot, and set the flame. The blue tongue of fire licked the bottom of the pan, and the broth slowly came to a boil.

Steam rose and fogged my vision.

I ladled the finished soup into a bowl and carried it out—just as Brian was already carrying Daisy toward the front door.

"She hasn't been sleeping well, so I'm taking her to the private hospital for a full checkup," he said without turning around. "Get some rest."

The door shut behind them, and their footsteps faded into the night.

I stood in the empty living room, holding the bowl, staring down at it for a long time.

Then I walked to the sink and poured every last drop down the drain.

I went upstairs and found my packed suitcase. Everything that wasn't mine, I left behind.

Then I pulled open the bottom drawer and took out a velvet box.

Inside was the ring Brian had used to propose—platinum with a diamond, our initials engraved inside the band. He'd said it represented a lifelong promise, and he'd made me swear never to take it off.

I took the ring from the box and held it in my palm for a long, quiet moment. The diamond caught the lamplight and threw a tiny rainbow across my skin.

Then I gathered everything—the box, the ring, every letter he'd ever written me, the cufflinks he'd chosen himself, the little souvenirs from every trip we'd taken together—and piled them into the fireplace.

I struck a match and dropped it in.

The flames licked at the paper, the velvet, the metal.

As the smoke rose, thick and acrid, I stood there watching everything I'd once treasured curl, blacken, and collapse into ash.

The edges of the letters turned brown and crumbled, and the ring's platinum glowed red for a moment before it was swallowed.

Then I turned and walked out to the back garden.

Under the moonlight, the swing at the western corner of the yard swayed gently in the night breeze. A few dried grape leaves still tangled in the wicker seat.

Brian had built it himself after learning how much I loved swinging on summer nights, reading beneath the vine trellis.

He'd said, "Anything you love, I'll build for you."

I stood before the swing and called the gardener. "Tear it all down."

The gardener froze. "Miss Rossi, Mr. Patel built these with his own hands—"

"Tear it down," I said softly. "Starting tomorrow, this entire area will be turned into flower beds. Daisy loves gardening—she wants roses and lavender in the yard."

The gardener opened his mouth, then closed it and said nothing.

Everyone had seen it coming these past weeks—the mistress of this villa had already become someone else.

The swing was unbolted. The grapevines were uprooted. Dry leaves scattered across the soil.

I picked up my suitcase, crossed the empty yard, pushed open the side gate, and stepped into the night.

I never looked back.