Chapter 2

Amelia’s POV

I stood in our bedroom — his bedroom now — staring at the open suitcase on the bed.

Three years of marriage, and everything I owned fit into one piece of luggage.

My hands moved mechanically, folding clothes I didn't remember buying. Neutral tones, modest cuts, nothing that would draw attention or disappoint. When did I stop wearing color? When did I stop being myself?

Down the hall, Daniel's study door remained closed. I could see the light beneath it, could imagine him at his desk, already buried in work. As if nothing had happened. As if I'd already disappeared.

"Take what you need," he'd said an hour ago, his voice flat and distant through the door. "I'll be traveling for the next few days. The penthouse will be empty." Translation: Be gone when I get back.

I grabbed a sweater from the drawer and caught the scent of his cologne embedded in the fabric. My chest constricted painfully. I almost put it back, then stopped myself. No. I couldn't keep torture devices disguised as memories.

A photo frame on the nightstand caught my eye — our wedding day. I picked it up with trembling hands, studying the woman in white who smiled like she'd won the lottery. You fool, I thought. You beautiful, stupid fool.

The memory crashed over me unbidden.

"You're sure about this?" Daniel had asked the night before our wedding, lying beside me in a hotel room, his fingers tracing patterns on my palm. "Marrying me means board meetings and business dinners. Late nights and early mornings. It won't always be easy."

I'd kissed him. "I'm sure about you. The rest is just details."

He'd pulled me close, his voice rough with something that sounded like relief. "I don't deserve you."

"Then spend your life earning me," I'd whispered back, smiling.

But he'd stopped trying somewhere along the way.

I set the photo face-down and continued packing. A book I'd been reading - abandoned three months ago when Daniel called it "frivolous." The earrings my mother gave me—too sentimental for Sterling charity galas. A sketchpad I'd hidden in the back of the closet, its pages filled with drawings I'd been too afraid to show him.

Evidence of the woman I used to be, buried under the weight of being Mrs. Sterling.

My fingers brushed against something soft at the back of the drawer. I pulled it out. A red dress. Silk, with a low back. I'd worn it once, two years ago, to surprise Daniel at dinner. He'd looked up from his phone, frowned, and said it was too much. Too attention-seeking. Not appropriate for a Sterling.

I'd changed before we left. The dress had stayed hidden ever since.

I held it up now, watching the fabric catch the light. It was beautiful. Bold. Nothing like the woman I'd become. I folded it carefully and placed it in my suitcase. Maybe I'd wear it again. Maybe I'd remember what it felt like to be seen.

The closet held more ghosts. A yoga mat I'd bought with good intentions. Running shoes that had never touched pavement. A guitar case gathering dust in the corner. I'd told Daniel I used to play, back in college. He'd smiled and said that was sweet, then never asked me to play for him.

I left them all behind. They belonged to dreams I'd let die.

In the bathroom, I gathered my toiletries. The mirror reflected a stranger—pale skin, hollow eyes, hair pulled back in a tight bun. When did I start looking so small? So invisible?

I thought of my mother's words before the wedding. "You're so lucky, Amelia. Daniel Sterling—he'll take care of everything. Take care of us. Just make him happy, sweetheart. That's all you need to do."

I'd listened. I'd thought making him happy was enough. Meant putting him first. Meant shrinking myself to fit the shape he wanted.

I'd been so wrong.

I zipped the suitcase closed and sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. My phone lay silent beside me. Part of me—the pathetic, desperate part—wanted him to knock on the door. To say he'd made a mistake. To fight for us.

But Daniel Sterling didn't make mistakes. He made decisions.

And I was his biggest regret.

The apartment was too quiet. I could hear the rain still falling outside. Could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Could hear my own breathing, shallow and uneven. But from the study, nothing. Not a footstep. Not a sigh. He was letting me go without a sound.

Maybe that was worse than anything he'd said earlier. The complete absence of fight. Of regret. Of second thoughts.

I stood, grabbing my suitcase handle. The apartment felt cavernous around me, all marble and glass and expensive emptiness. I'd tried so hard to make it a home—fresh flowers every week, his favorite meals waiting, my presence a constant warmth.

None of it had mattered.

I walked down the hallway, past wedding photos that would come down tomorrow, past the kitchen where we'd shared exactly three breakfasts together in three years, past the living room where I'd waited countless nights for him to come home.

I paused at the kitchen island where I'd signed my life away just hours ago. The pen was still there. The papers were gone. Already filed away, probably. Daniel was efficient like that. He didn't leave loose ends.

I remembered another moment in this kitchen. Six months into our marriage. I'd woken up early to make him breakfast before a big presentation. Pancakes, bacon, fresh coffee. He'd walked in, distracted, grabbed an apple, and left. The food had gone cold on the counter.

I'd cried for an hour. Then I'd told myself he was just busy. That it would get better. That love meant understanding.

More lies I'd told myself.

The study door remained closed. No sound came from inside.

I stopped, my hand hovering near the wood. I could knock. Could try one more time. Could beg.

No. I'd signed the papers. I'd given him what he wanted. I wouldn't humiliate myself further.

I lowered my hand and continued to the front door. The marble floor echoed with each step, announcing my departure to walls that didn't care.

At the threshold, I paused. The penthouse stretched before me—gleaming, perfect, and utterly soulless. Just like the man inside it.

"I loved you," I whispered to the empty space, my voice breaking on the last word. "I loved you more than I loved myself, and that was my mistake."

The words hung in the air, unanswered.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The carpet was soft under my feet. Different from the hard marble inside. Softer. Warmer. I pulled my suitcase behind me and walked toward the elevator.

I didn't look back.

Behind me, the penthouse door swung shut with a final, quiet click.