Chapter 3

Chapter 3: The Poisoned Farewell

Standing on the wet pavement, Aria clutched the worn map and the small bag containing the essentials Thomas had helped her gather. The coastal town he had circled seemed a thousand miles away, but first, she had one agonizing, necessary stop – the penthouse.

She had convinced herself she needed nothing from Julian Vance’s world, but a tiny, irrational voice insisted she couldn’t leave forever without retrieving one thing: a collection of childhood drawings she’d kept in a hidden compartment of her old art desk and the trinket, of course. They were her only tangible link to her late parents, a lifeline she needed now more than ever.

The penthouse security was set up to her biometric scan and code; Julian, in his arrogance, wouldn’t have thought to remove her access yet. She bypassed the doorman, her heart hammering heavily against her ribs. Everything about the house felt alien to her.

The apartment was exactly as she’d left it – dry, cold, and echoing with the silence of his absence, as always. She moved with hurried precision toward her small, separate studio space.

Just as her hand reached for the hidden latch on the desk, a sound came through the quiet: the sound of silk against skin and a scent – nauseating, expensive, and sickeningly familiar. Clara Vance stood in the doorway of the living room, a slow, predatory smile upon her lips.

She was wearing a burgundy silk robe, wrapped tightly to emphasize her figure, and nothing else. Her dark hair was strategically curled and side-swept, her face flushed as if she’d just been roused from sleep. The sight was a punch to Aria's gut, reminding her of her husband – or rather, her ex-husband's betrayal.

“Aria, darling,” Clara purred, lounging against the door frame. “You look... uhm, a little pale. Did you forget something?”

Aria’s breath hitched in her throat. She straightened, her face held a cold look. “I came for my property. I won’t be long.”

Clara gave a throaty laugh, holding her chest in mockery. “Property. Such a beautiful word for the remnants of a failed marriage. You should’ve known better than to marry for love, sweetie. It never lasts, especially not with a man like Julian.”

She walked toward Aria, her bare feet padding softly on the marble floor. “Don’t touch me,” Aria warned, stepping back. The rage was a bitter taste on her tongue, but she wouldn’t let Clara see her pain; she wouldn't be vulnerable.

Clara simply smirked. “Oh, relax. I’m not contagious. Unless you consider Julian’s scent contagious.” She trailed a finger down the lapel of the silk robe. “I should thank you, really. The divorce papers sped things up wonderfully. Although he was distracted for a few weeks, sulking, but he always comes home to what’s familiar. And let’s just say, the bed’s still warm.”

Aria felt the blood drain from her face. Warm? The bed’s still warm? It was a deliberate, vicious attempt to wound her, to plant the image of Julian... Clara leaned in, her voice dropping to a cold whisper. “You know, he’s never been very creative. Always the same spots on my body. Always the same phrases. He was even murmuring about his ‘distraction’ earlier. Kept calling me 'honey' in the heat of the moment. I should admit, he is good.”

Her words, like poison, worked their way into Aria’s heart. The old doubt, the fear that she was never enough, flowed back in. Julian wasn't filled with regret; he was just momentarily put out by the inconvenience of divorce. He was already back with the woman who was a part of his corporate world.

Her escape, her secret child, felt suddenly reckless and foolish. Clara stepped back, her eyes raking over Aria’s simple clothes and pale face. “Honestly, Aria, didn’t you learn anything? You’re an orphan, nothing to your name, wandering back here looking pathetic, but here I am as the new mistress of this property. Even I and he have similar surnames. Isn't that fate? Huh."

Picking up a pen from the desk, she clicked on it to reveal its pointy tip. "This is Julian’s territory. He bought this building; he owns the air in it. You think you’re going to walk in here, carrying some secret hope, only to find the man who broke you is already happily settled? You should have packed your dignity before you packed your things.”

Clara crossed her arms, a look of triumph fixed on her face. “You don’t belong here anymore, Aria. You never truly did. You were the sweet, naive, weak little wife he kept hidden away. He was so ashamed of your incompetence. Now he needs someone who can stand beside him on the world stage. Someone who understands that love is a transaction, not some sentiment.”

The mention of “secret hope” and “new life” sent a wave of panic through Aria. Had Julian or Clara somehow discovered her pregnancy? That should not happen, no matter what.

“I have no hope,” Aria said, the words forced through her dry throat. She gripped the edge of the desk for support. “I just came for my things. You can keep the man. He’s damaged goods, just like this place. There's nothing special about here, just cold and dry with no life.”

She ripped the compartment open, grabbing the bundle of rolled-up drawings and the trinket, carefully wrapped in the middle. They were old, stained with paint and childhood innocence, her most precious treasures.

Clutching them like a shield, she turned to face Clara one last time. “Enjoy your temporary position, Clara. I don't know how you can be so proud to remain just a mistress. If you're so important, I think he should wife you up.”

Aria said, her voice surprisingly steady and clear, considering the pain within her. “Wake up from your dream too, Clara. Julian doesn’t love you either. You’re just another asset to him. And when he's done with you, he’ll discard you too. I’m leaving this toxic atmosphere, and I'm not looking back.”

Not waiting for Clara's reply or insults, she walked out, past the woman draped in silk, past the marble halls, and past the illusion of the life she’d once dreamed of and tried to build.

The sight of Clara, so shamelessly inhabiting her space, was the final, potent dose of poison she needed. It shattered any lingering feelings or desperate hope that Julian might truly regret his actions. The man she had married didn't want to be saved and would never change. It is his nature; he kept showing her, but she kept ignoring the red flags, hoping one day they would turn green.

She sadly shook her head at that thought. As she reached the elevator, her hand instinctively went to her still-flat abdomen. The rage and the pain of Clara's vicious words gave her strength to move on. The baby was hers, and hers alone.

She would ensure that Julian Vance, the cold, heartless, controlling billionaire, would never know of his existence. His power would not touch this child. The divorce was signed, the betrayal was confirmed, and the last thin line to her past was severed.

With newfound determination, Aria stepped into the elevator, her eyes fixed on the horizon. She knew that she had to protect herself and her unborn child from the toxic world she was leaving behind. The coastal town, with its promise of anonymity and new beginnings, beckoned her. Aria took a deep breath, feeling a sense of liberation wash over her. She was ready to start anew, to leave the pain and the heartache behind, and to forge a new path, one that was hers alone.