Done

The next morning, the house was hushed, but Mya felt something thrumming beneath her skin like the low hum of a storm waiting to break. She woke before the servants stirred, before Lorraine’s clipped footsteps rang through the corridors, before Caroline’s shrill voice carried over the breakfast table.

Her room was still cloaked in shadows when she stepped toward the wardrobe. For years, she had let Lorraine’s sharp tongue dictate her clothing choices. Pale colors suit you. They soften your edges. She had listened, dutiful and pliant, slipping into blues and grays, never daring to stand out too boldly. Lorraine had called it refinement, but Mya understood the truth: it was camouflage, a way of making her disappear into the background.

Not today.

Her fingers trailed over rows of soft fabrics until they stopped on crimson silk. She drew the dress out carefully, the fabric whispering against her skin as she slipped it on. It clung to her body like a second skin, every curve bold and undeniable. Not an ornament. Not a ghost. A woman.

At the vanity, she applied her makeup with steady hands. Foundation, eyeliner, mascara. Finally, lipstick — the same deep crimson as her dress. She stared at her reflection. Her own eyes looked back at her, but the woman framed in the mirror was a stranger. Strong. Resolved. The kind of woman Damon would never recognize, because he had never bothered to see her at all.

By the time she left her room, the house was stirring. Staff moved quietly along the halls, adjusting drapes, dusting polished wood, preparing breakfast trays. Their eyes flicked to her as she passed. Mya was used to indifference — servants trained to look past her, as though her presence was no more important than the paintings on the wall. But today, heads turned. Eyes widened. One young maid nearly dropped the stack of linens she carried.

Mya held the folder tight against her chest, her heels striking the marble with precise rhythm. She said nothing, but she could feel it — the ripple of awareness passing through them. They sensed the shift.

The corridor to Damon’s office felt longer than usual, stretching like a tunnel she could not escape. At the end, the door stood ajar, golden morning light spilling across the floor. She slowed her steps, steadying her breath.

Inside, Damon sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the very picture of controlled power. He was dressed impeccably, a dark suit tailored within an inch of perfection, his tie knotted with careless precision. His eyes were fixed on his phone, his thumb swiping lazily.

And there she was.

Sloane Monroe, perched elegantly on the corner of his desk, one leg crossed over the other. She wore ivory silk, her hair cascading in polished waves, her red nails glinting as she rested a possessive hand on Damon’s shoulder. She leaned close, whispering something that made him chuckle.

Neither of them looked up when Mya entered.

Her heels clicked against the marble, the sound loud in the silence. She kept her head high, her gaze locked on Damon. She would not shrink. Not this time.

She stopped in front of his desk. The silence stretched. Finally, she broke it.

“Damon.”

His head lifted lazily, his expression flat with mild annoyance. “Mya. What is it?”

Sloane turned then, her smile sharp, her eyes sweeping over Mya’s crimson dress with disdain. “Well, look at you,” she purred. “Trying something new?”

Mya ignored her. She placed the folder on the desk, sliding it across the polished surface until it touched Damon’s hand.

“Divorce papers,” she said simply.

The words hung in the air, heavier than the chandelier above them.

Damon stilled, his eyes flicking to the folder, then back to her. For a heartbeat, surprise glimmered — quickly smothered by amusement. He leaned back in his chair, lips curling into a familiar sneer.

“You’ll regret this,” he said softly, almost fondly, as if humoring a child who didn’t know better.

Sloane let out a low laugh, leaning closer. “Oh, Damon, she’s serious. Look at her. Playing dress-up, thinking she can walk away.”

Mya didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry, didn’t beg. She simply met Damon’s gaze, her eyes steady, unwavering. For the first time, she wasn’t looking at the man she had once loved. She was looking at the stranger who had broken her, belittled her, discarded her.

“Perhaps,” she said, her voice even, measured. “But at least I won’t regret being your wife any longer.”

Sloane’s laughter cut off abruptly. Damon’s smirk faltered, though only for a second.

Mya turned then, her crimson dress flaring slightly as she pivoted. Her heels clicked against the marble, echoing down the corridor. Her heart pounded, adrenaline surging, but she didn’t look back. Not once.

Behind her, Damon’s voice rose, sharp this time. “Mya—”

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t need to hear what came next. His sneer, his arrogance, his empty threats — they no longer mattered.

The corridor seemed brighter than it ever had, sunlight spilling through tall windows, warming her skin. Staff glanced at her as she passed, their eyes wide, but this time she welcomed their stares. Let them see. Let them whisper.

She was done hiding.

At dinner that evening, Lorraine’s voice cut through the silence like the edge of a knife. “What is the meaning of this?”

Mya didn’t bother pretending not to know. The papers would have reached Damon’s mother by now. Nothing in this house stayed secret for long.

Lorraine’s fingers tightened around her wine glass, her eyes sharp as diamonds. Caroline sat beside her, smirking like a cat about to pounce. Damon was absent, as usual.

“I heard,” Lorraine said slowly, “that you filed for divorce.”

Mya set down her fork calmly, her crimson lips curving in the faintest smile. “Yes.”

Caroline let out a delighted laugh. “Finally! I wondered how long it would take before you admitted you’re not cut out for this life.”

“Cut out?” Mya echoed softly. “You mean a life of silence? Of humiliation?”

Lorraine’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your tone. You forget yourself.”

“No,” Mya said, her voice quiet but steady. “I’ve spent three years forgetting myself. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The words hung heavy. Lorraine’s expression hardened, but Mya didn’t give her the chance to reply. She rose from her chair, smoothing her dress.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, her tone polite, final.

She left them staring after her — Lorraine fuming, Caroline wide-eyed with mockery — and for the first time, Mya didn’t feel like prey. She felt like someone who had finally stepped outside the cage.

That night, in her room, she slipped beneath the covers. The house was silent, but her mind was calm. She had expected to feel fear, to be consumed by doubt. Instead, she felt light, her chest unburdened for the first time in years.

Her eyes closed easily.

And for the first time since her wedding night, Mya Smith slept soundly.

Because whatever came next — scandal, whispers, wrath — it would be hers.

Hers to face. Hers to conquer. Hers to define.