Chapter 4 Letting Him Go

The front door closed, and I was left alone in the empty living room.

I slid helplessly to the floor and covered my mouth to keep my sobs from spilling out.

I did not know how much time had passed before I finally braced myself against the wall and slowly stood up.

In my studio, a damaged antique painting was still spread across the table.

It was my favorite piece, "Waiting at the Harbor."

In the painting, a woman stood at the pier, looking into the distance as she waited for her family to come home.

I once showed the painting to Eric and smiled as I asked, "Doesn't she look like me? Always waiting for my parents to come back."

Back then, he stroked my hair and told me gently, "They will. I'll wait with you."

Thinking about it now, the irony was almost unbearable.

He had waited with me while personally cutting off every hope I had.

I picked up my restoration tools and tried to lose myself in the work, but my hands trembled so badly that I could not focus.

The dull ache in my chest slowly sharpened into something cruel, like a knife being driven into me again and again.

That night, Eric did not come home.

He did not come home the next day either.

Or the day after that.

I called him several times, but each time, he only answered coldly, said he was busy, and hung up in a hurry.

It was not until the fourth day that I finally saw him on the financial news.

He had accompanied Isabelle to a charity gala.

In the photo, he was lowering his head to adjust the hem of her dress, his eyes so gentle they seemed to melt.

Isabelle stood beside him with a bright smile, her hand wrapped around his arm like a proud princess.

They looked perfect together, as if they had always belonged side by side.

And I was nothing more than an awkward, laughable footnote in their perfect love story.

I turned off my phone and walked to the window.

Outside, the night was dark and heavy.

I thought, 'Eric, I'm setting both of us free.'

I began packing my things in silence.

Every corner of the villa held traces of Eric. Everywhere I looked, there were gifts he had given me.

Now, they looked like nothing more than beautiful chains.

I packed only my personal belongings into the suitcase. I did not touch anything Eric or the Terrell family had given me.

I never truly owned those things, nor did I have any right to take them.

The night before I planned to leave, Eric came home.

He seemed to have been drinking. There was a faint scent of alcohol on him, mixed with Isabelle's perfume.

When he saw the suitcase in the living room, he froze for a moment. Then he frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to stay at my studio for a few days," I answered calmly.

He walked over and took my hand, his tone softening. "Aimee, stop making this difficult, okay? I know I was harsh that day, but I was doing it for your own good."

Then, as always, he brought up Isabelle. "Isabelle is sensitive. Can't you just be a little more understanding with her?"

Isabelle again.

In Eric's world, everything seemed to make way for Isabelle.

I pulled my hand from his and looked at him. "Eric, what if I say I will never give in to her again? What are you going to do?"