Signing Away My Soul

Elara’s hands shook as she folded a simple cotton sweater, one she had owned before the world turned grey. She bypassed the velvet boxes on the vanity. The diamonds, the emeralds, the "tips for services rendered" she left them all. They felt like lead weights.

A sharp, familiar wave of nausea hit her, forcing her to lean against the wardrobe. She clutched her stomach, her breath coming in shallow hitches. I’m just tired, she lied to the empty room. I’m just hollow.

Her eyes drifted to the silk sheets, and the memories came unbidden, biting and cruel. Three years of nights where the silence of the day was drowned out by the heat of his skin. Julian never said "I love you," but he had claimed her with a desperation that felt like a prayer. She remembered a rainy Tuesday two years ago; he had come home drunk, his guard shattered. He had pulled her into his lap, burying his face in her neck, murmuring, "Elara, why are you so soft? Why are you the only thing that doesn't hurt to look at?"

She had tickled his sides then, trying to make him laugh, and for one beautiful, fleeting second, he had. He’d pinned her to the bed, biting her shoulder with a growl, his eyes dark with a hunger that wasn't just lust, it was a need to be anchored. They had broken the headboard of the guest room that night right after moving there until their already broken bed was supposed to be replaced...one of the many they both broke while drowning into each other...Letting each other believe it means something and nothing at the same time, lost in a fever that made her believe she was more than a contract.

"Was it all a lie, Julian?" she whispered, a tear splashing onto the suitcase. "Even the way you held my hand in your sleep? Was that just a transaction too?"

---

Downstairs, Julian sat in the darkness of his office, the scotch in his glass untouched. He wasn't looking at the merger documents. He was staring at the wall, seeing the ghost of their wedding night.

He remembered her standing in the center of this very room, draped in white lace, looking like a dream he didn't deserve. He had walked up to her, his heart hammering a rhythm of pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Where is he, Elara?" he had demanded, his voice a low hiss. "Where did your father run to after he finished bleeding my family dry?"

Elara had looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. "My father is a good man, Julian. He’s just… he’s lost. He didn't mean for the bankruptcy to happen—"

"A good man?" Julian had laughed, the sound jagged and ugly. "The luxury you were raised in? The silver spoon in your mouth? It was forged from my father’s tears. He ruined us decades ago, and now that he’s gone, you’re the only collateral left. You’re going to pay every cent of his debt with your life, your name, and your body."

He had pushed her onto the bed then, his hands rough as he pinned her wrists. He had kissed her with a violence that tasted of salt and revenge, but he hadn't stayed,  hadn't pushed further than the kiss that night. He had felt the way she trembled not with disgust, but with a terrifying, fragile trust and he had fled the room, terrified that if he stayed, the vengeance in his heart would turn into something he couldn't control.

"Three years, Elara," he had shouted from the hallway that night. "Then I’m throwing you back to the gutter where you belong."

He closed his eyes now, the memory sticking in his throat. He had spent three years trying to hate her, yet he had spent every night of those three years seeking her warmth.

Upstairs, the click of a suitcase zipper signaled the end. Elara walked to the desk and placed a single cream-colored envelope on top of the signed divorce papers. Her heart felt like it had been shredded and stitched back together with wire.

She picked up her phone and tapped the app. Your ride is three minutes away.

She took one last look at the room. She thought of the nights he had bitten her lip to keep her from screaming his name, the mornings he had left the bed cold before she woke up, and the one time he had stayed to brush her hair when she was sick with the flu.

"Goodbye, Julian," she whispered. "I hope the silence is everything you wanted."

She walked out the back entrance, avoiding the cameras, and slipped into the waiting car. As the mansion faded into the rainy mist, Julian finally stood up and walked toward the stairs, a strange, sickening dread beginning to pool in his stomach.

He walked into the bedroom. It was empty. The air was cold. The scent of vanilla was gone.

He saw the papers. He saw the letter. With trembling fingers, he tore it open.

Julian,

I’ve signed the papers. You’re free. I don't know how I fell in love with a man who saw me as a debt. I don't know how I gave my soul to someone who only wanted my ruin. You told me the day we married that you would throw me away when the debt was settled. Congratulations. You’ve won. Don't look for me. You won't find me. The Vance girl is dead, just like you wanted. I hate you for what you did to us, but God help me, I hate myself more for still wishing you had just once looked at me and seen a wife instead of a ledger.

The debt is paid in full. Goodbye.