Chapter 6

The night pressed in on the Shelby manor like a suffocating blanket, the kind of silence that made even the air feel heavy. I sat at the edge of the bed, my pulse thundering in my ears, my suitcase—half-packed, half-hidden—tucked in the shadowy corner of the room.

Five years.

Five years of watching myself fade from the vibrant, laughing girl I once was into the ghost Maverick and my parents molded. Five years of silence, humiliation, and stolen sparks of dignity.

Tomorrow, I will be free.

I rose, my bare feet cold against the marble floor. Every step toward Maverick’s office felt like stepping deeper into a forbidden labyrinth. My hand trembled on the polished brass door handle, the smell of leather and ink bleeding into my memory the instant I pushed the door open. His office always smelled like him—cold, precise, intimidating.

The desk loomed before me, glass reflecting the faint silver glow of the moon pouring through the window. I slid Arthur Wells’ carefully drafted divorce documents from the inside of my cardigan, my heartbeat tripping dangerously. Every second felt like borrowed time—what if Maverick walked in? What if he saw me crouched over his desk like a thief?

I slipped the papers between the neat stack of contracts awaiting his signature. My breath snagged in my chest. The bold black letters spelling DIVORCE DECREE disappeared beneath the bland reports. One final check. My fingerprints left no mark. It was buried. Safe.

The clock ticked, impossibly loud. I forced myself to leave, not daring to glance back.

In my room, the weight of what I’d just done finally settled. Tomorrow, everything could change.

I knelt before my suitcase. Essentials only—clothes that could fit in a single duffel, documents tucked into a hidden pouch, the new phone still in its plastic wrapping. Nothing more. Nothing that could tie me to Camilla Santos.

The bubble bath I drew that night was the last I would ever take in this house. Foam lapped at my collarbone, scented lavender clinging to my skin. The marble bathroom, with its gold fixtures and vanity mirrors, mocked me with its sterile beauty. I closed my eyes and let the water cradle me, whispering goodbyes to a life I never chose, promising myself I’d never again let someone drown me in silence.

When I crawled into bed, exhaustion tugged at me, but my mind refused to rest. Sleep came shallow and fractured, but morning arrived anyway.

The sun crept timidly into my room, painting long stripes of gold across the floor. Maverick had already left for work. My heart punched against my ribs as I padded back into his office.

My fingers trembled as I searched through the signed stack.

There.

His bold signature carved across the bottom of the divorce decree. My lungs burned with the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. He hadn’t even noticed what he signed.

For the first time in years, my lips curved into a smile that wasn’t forced. A wild, reckless smile that felt foreign on my face.

I looked at the wall clock in his office. I still had four hours before my flight.

Back in my room, I pulled the last items from my wardrobe. The rest—the gowns, the jewelry he never once complimented, the life that had chained me—were piled high in the backyard fire pit. With shaky hands, I struck a match and dropped it.

The flames roared to life, devouring satin and silk, swallowing fragments of the girl I once was. The smell of burning fabric clung to me. I watched until everything turned to gray ash. My fingers stung as I scooped the remains into a basin and carried them to the fountain at the center of the courtyard. The water rippled as I scattered the ashes, swallowing what was left of Camilla Santos.

By the time I returned to my room, not a trace of my life remained. The bed was made neatly, the curtains drawn just so, as though I had never touched them. The room looked exactly as it had five years ago, sterile and waiting.

I whispered, “Goodbye,” and meant it.

At the gate, the guards glanced up as I approached, a tote bag slung over my shoulder, face carefully calm.

“Where are you headed, Mrs. Shelby?” one asked politely.

“Just a quick grocery run,” I said, forcing a faint smile. My voice didn’t tremble; I was proud of that.

The older guard frowned for a moment, eyes flicking to the bag on my shoulder, then back to my face. My breath stalled. If he pressed, if he asked…

But he only nodded and waved me through.

Every nerve in my body screamed as I slid into the waiting sedan. We drove away from the manor, and only when the gates disappeared behind me did my pulse slow enough for me to breathe.

Ten minutes later, I spotted the nondescript hatchback I’d arranged. The driver didn’t look at me when I slid in, trading cars swift and silent. I left the sedan behind like a discarded skin.

Time to head to the airport.

The roads blurred past. My palms slicked with sweat as I checked the time again and again. Two hours, then one. My mind replayed every step of my plan, every careful measure I’d taken. New passport. New number. Carla Jepherson.

Thirty minutes until boarding when I finally reached the airport.

The terminal swallowed me in fluorescent light and the hum of hundreds of voices. My chest tightened as I handed over the ticket, every second dragging with the fear that someone would call my name, stop me, drag me back. But no one did. My bag slid smoothly through security. My ID passed without question.

Relief came sharp and dizzy as I hurried through the gate, down the narrow jet bridge, and into the plane. The scent of recirculated air, faint leather, and engine oil wrapped around me. My seat was near the back. I slid into it, clutching the armrest until my knuckles ached.

I made it.

But not yet free. Not until the wheels left the ground.

The plane filled slowly, strangers brushing past me, the murmur of conversations foreign and detached. I excused myself once the aisle cleared and slipped into the restroom.

From my bag, I pulled out the old phone. My fingers hovered for a moment. That little device contained everything—photos, messages, numbers, fragments of the girl who had been Camilla Santos. My entire life.

And I had to kill it.

I slammed it hard against the sink. The screen spider-webbed, glass shards glittering like tiny stars. Once, twice, again. The plastic cracked, circuits exposed. I smashed it until nothing recognizable remained, until my reflection in the mirror was framed by ruin.

I flushed the shattered pieces down the disposal chute. My chest heaved, adrenaline making my heart beat faster.

Then, with steady fingers, I unwrapped the new phone. Sleek. Clean. A blank slate. I powered it on. A new SIM, a new name glowing on the lock screen.

Carla Jepherson.

I whispered the name aloud, tasting its freedom.

The engines roared to life, vibrating through the plane. The rush of acceleration pinned me back against the seat. My pulse matched the rising thunder of the plane.

The wheels lifted. The earth fell away.

Goodbye, Camilla Santos.

Hello, Carla Jepherson.