Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Mabel's Point of View

As soon as Dexter shut the door behind Zyran and turned around, the polite business smile on his face disappeared.

“Why did you interfere in my meeting?”

I stared at him, genuinely confused.

I had only been asked for my opinion, and I had given it. What exactly did he expect me to do? Sit there quietly while he presented numbers that didn't make sense? Smile and nod like some decorative wife who had no brain of her own?

“You made me look unprepared in front of my rival!” His voice thundered through the mansion, making my ears ring.

I remained quiet.

Not because I couldn't raise my voice. Not because I was suddenly afraid to defend myself. I simply recognized the anger in his eyes. There was something different about the way he was looking at me, something that made the hairs on my skin rise.

For the first time, I really had to start wondering if the man standing in front of me could actually hit me.

And I hated that I was wondering that about my own husband.

Ex-husband now. I wasn't used to calling him that just yet.

Silence settled between us, thick enough to make the room feel warm.

“You were about to present figures that didn't make any sens—” I stopped myself and let out a deep breath. “Actually, you already presented them. I just pointed out the problem.”

His hand curled into a fist, his knuckles turning white.

“I didn't ask for your opinion.”

A humourless laugh almost escaped me.

Of course.

I turned around and started walking toward the staircase. I wanted to look unbothered, like none of this could touch me, but inside, I was barely holding myself together.

Some part of me was still hoping I would wake up.

Maybe I would open my eyes and find myself beside the man I married. The man who used to pull me into his arms every morning. The man who used to look at me like I was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Not this stranger.

Not the man who had handed me divorce papers and then brought my pregnant best friend into our home.

My lovely husband.

The words almost made me laugh.

Lovely?

What a cruel joke.

I swallowed hard before looking over my shoulder, “And I didn't ask to be dragged into a business meeting after you handed me divorce papers. Yet here we are.”

I continued toward the stairs, “Don't confuse my being nice with giving you the right to keep me in this house and expect me to stay quiet whenever you do something stupid.”

His silence followed me.

I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth, trying desperately to hold myself together as I climbed the stairs.

He didn't just want a divorce.

He wanted me gone as his wife but still available whenever he needed me.

He wanted me to smile when his rival was around, play the supportive wife when it benefited him, and disappear whenever my existence became inconvenient.

He wanted to use me without having to love me.

He didn't want the supportive wife anymore.

No.

He wanted the supportive. He just didn't want the wife.

When I reached our bedroom, I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it and pushed the door open.

My eyes immediately landed on the bed.

She was lying there comfortably, almost too comfortably, like she had every right to be there, like she had done this before.

My chest tightened.

This wasn't the first time she had been in our room.

“Their room now,” I reminded myself.

Her eyes found mine. She looked me up and down slowly, almost as if she was inspecting an outfit she didn't like, before turning her back to me.

I looked away.

I didn't have the strength to fight her, at least not right now.

I quietly clicked the door shut and turned toward the walk-in closet.

Once inside, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.

My legs gave out.

I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, pulling my knees against my chest.

For several seconds, I simply sat there.

I wanted to cry.

God, I really wanted to cry, but I was tired of crying.

I had spent enough nights hiding under blankets so nobody would hear me. Enough mornings washing swollen eyes before walking downstairs and pretending everything was fine. Enough nights convincing myself that if I could just hold myself together for one more day, everything would eventually get better and Dexter would stop ignoring me and using “business” as an excuse.

I had gotten so good at pretending to be okay that sometimes even I forgot I wasn't.

But there was one painful difference this time. I used to endure all of that for a man who appreciated me. Now, I was enduring it for a man who had already replaced me.

I wiped the corner of my eye and forced myself to stand.

I pulled a suitcase from the corner and began taking my clothes off the hangers. I folded each one carefully, almost mechanically, placing them inside the bag.

My shoes went in next, especially the little ones I had bought for myself.

I skipped everything Dexter had bought me.

If he had bought it for the wife he no longer wanted, then he could keep it.

I opened the next drawer where we kept our important documents, gold, credentials and other valuables.

I couldn't keep living in this house, especially not as some pathetic placeholder waiting for a man to decide what he wanted to do with her life.

I had nothing waiting for me outside those gates either.

But I would rather struggle from nothing than stay here and watch another woman take over my life while I stood there pretending not to care.

My suitcase was getting full, so I dragged over a small stool and climbed onto it to reach one of my shoulder bags.

A simple black one.

Nothing expensive or flashy. It was cheap, but I loved it.

Rosaline probably wouldn't even look at it twice unless it had Dior or Prada written somewhere on it.

My fingers were about to close around the strap when my eyes caught a gold chain lying among Dexter's things.

I hesitated before picking it up.

I stared at it for a moment before shoving it into the shoulder bag.

Maybe I could sell it and it would give me enough money to survive while I figured out what came next.

I grabbed my certificates and personal papers and carefully placed them inside the bag.

Then my fingers touched something beneath them. A piece of paper.

My heart stopped as soon as I recognized the handwriting on it.. Dexter's.

The ink had faded slightly over the years, but I could still make out every crooked letter.

‘For Mabel.’

Underneath it was a short message he had written for me years ago, before the money, before the mansion, before the designer clothes and business meetings.

‘I don't know where life will take us, but I promise I'll always remember the girl who believed in me when I had nothing. If I ever become the man I've always dreamed of becoming, I hope you'll still be beside me. I love you.’

My vision blurred.

I remembered that day.

We weren't rich yet. We didn't have this house. We didn't have assistants or drivers or companies or anything that resembled the life we had now.

We had dreams and that was all but back then, that had been enough.

I had kept that note all these years because I thought I would one day be old and grey, sitting beside him and laughing about how far we'd come.

I thought I would show it to our children or grandchildren.

I thought it would be proof that before money changed everything, we had loved each other.

I folded the note carefully.

For a moment, I wanted to put it in my bag.

But what was the point? So I placed it back. I slammed the drawer shut before I could change my mind, grabbed my bag and zipped it up so aggressively that my fingers hurt.

I stood there for a moment, looking around the closet.

I checked everything twice to make sure I wasn't coming back for anything.

The door creaked behind me before I turned.

Dexter stood in the doorway.

His eyes immediately fell on the suitcases.

His gaze moved from the half empty wardrobe to the clothes packed into my suitcase, then to the shoulder bag hanging from my hand.

He stepped inside and slowly shut the door.

“What are you doing?” There was a laugh in his voice, but it sounded forced.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

His expression changed, but only for a second.

His eyes widened slightly before he quickly masked the surprise.

Maybe he thought I would sit around waiting for him to decide what happened to me next.

He had spent so long believing he had control over my life that he couldn't imagine me making a decision without him.

“The divorce isn't official yet,” he said dismissively.

“I know.”

“So?”

I looked at him.

“I signed the papers. That's official enough for me.”

His jaw tightened.

I turned away before he could see the tears gathering in my eyes.

“I have no intention of continuing to live here while you and Rosaline prepare for your future together,” I said quietly. “I don't want to be a third wheel in my own marriage.”

“I'm not chasing you out.”

His voice softened, only slightly.

“We're getting divorced, Mabel. We're not enemies. You can stay here until you find somewhere else to go.”

I almost laughed.

That sounded less like concern and more like another attempt to control the situation.

He wanted to decide when I left, where I went, and how long I stayed, even now.

“I'm not your enemy,” I said, finally looking at him. “But you're mine now, Dexter.”

“I—”

He stopped.

For once, he seemed to have no immediate response.

Then he frowned.

“Where exactly do you think you're going?”

“Away from here.”

A laugh escaped his lips.

I knew how ridiculous I sounded.

I didn't have an exact destination and he knew. I didn't have a house waiting for me. I didn't even know what I was going to eat tomorrow.

But I knew I couldn't just stay.

“Don't be ridiculous, Mabel. You can't just walk out without a plan.”

“I helped you build a company when you had nothing.” I lifted my chin. “I think I'll manage to figure out where to go.”

“You're being dramatic.”

He looked at me for a moment before adding mockingly, “Are you on your period or something?”

There was something else beneath the mockery.

Hope.

He was hoping I was being dramatic or I would calm down after all this, or hoping I would eventually give up and stay.

He had no idea how badly he had miscalculated.

I picked up my shoulder bag and slung it over my shoulder. Then I grabbed the suitcase and pulled it behind me.

I walked toward the door.

He moved aside.

I stopped beside him and said before opening the door, “No.”

His eyebrows furrowed, then I walked out.

I made my way to the guest room and shut the door behind me.

The first thing I would do tomorrow was leave this house.

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the tears to come. I felt like I needed to cry, like my body was begging for the release, but somehow, my eyes refused to cooperate.

By eleven in the morning, I showered and opened the suitcase.

I pulled out a white sundress and a pair of black sandals. I tied my hair into a ponytail, rubbed some balm over my lips and grabbed the bags.

Dexter had already left for work.

Rosaline was somewhere in the mansion doing whatever she pleased.

Probably scrolling through an iPad, shopping for bronzers and designer heels, planning a concert, or booking some luxurious trip to the Maldives.

I didn't care.

I walked out of the estate.

Then I kept walking until ten minutes passed before I stopped.

Where was I going? I didn't know, until one thought came to me.

My mother's house? I immediately regretted it.

Mum had died only a few months ago.

No.

Died wasn't the right word. She was killed.

Someone had taken her life, and whoever had done it had been careful enough to leave almost no hints behind. The investigation had gone nowhere.

Just a body, a funeral and a daughter who was expected to somehow continue living.

Her house was the last place I wanted to be because I knew what waited for me there.

Her pictures, her dishes, her handwriting, her clothes. The little things she had touched without knowing that one day they would become the things I would desperately hold on to just to feel close to her.

I knew I would find some old cassette and suddenly remember her voice and that scared me more than anything.

Because lately, I had been forgetting it. That was the cruelest part.

I could still remember her face perfectly. I could picture the way she looked at me, the way her eyes softened whenever she called my name.

But her voice? It was becoming harder.

Sometimes I would sit quietly and try to hear it in my head and hear nothing but silence.

And I hated myself for it.

How could I forget my own mother's voice? It had only been months.

Few months since I had last heard her laugh, since I had watched her move around the house, since I could call her and hear her answer.

Yet time was already stealing pieces of her from me.

Grief didn't expire.

I thought there would be a day when I woke up and the ache in my chest would finally be gone.

There wasn't, not even once. Grief was cruel like that.

It could find you on an ordinary tuesday while you were standing in the shower.

Or maybe hit you on a saturday morning while you were getting dressed to go out.

It could crawl into your bed at 3 in the morning when the whole world was asleep and suddenly make you miss someone so badly that breathing felt like heavy work.

Sometimes I scrolled through her messages over and over again, not because I had anything new to read, but because I was terrified that one day I would forget what it felt like to have her texting me.

I replayed old memories in my head because I was scared they would disappear too.

Yet I couldn't even remember the sound of her voice anymore, not her laugh, not even the way she called my name.

My chest tightened, making it hard to breathe.

I stopped walking, then someone ran past me.

A hand yanked my shoulder bag so hard that the strap snapped.

I stumbled, watching the stranger sprint away with my bag before my brain finally caught up with what had happened.

My heart dropped.

The gold was in there, and my personal documents. My entire life was in that bag. It hit me almost too late that I had been robbed.