Chapter 2

Time dragged as Maverick stared down the divorce papers.

I still remembered exactly what I wrote—I didn't want anything. No strings. No drama. Just freedom from the Falkners. The settlement from my parents' accident? More than enough to stand on my own.

So why did he look like he was ready to explode?

He let out a smirk. "She really thinks this'll make me crack and come crawling back?"

Then—rip. Just like that, the agreement was in pieces.

"Tell her to quit the act. She's not some naive little girl anymore."

Each shred felt like it tore through my chest. His words—mean, petty—cut deeper than any paper ever could. Mocking my age, my fight, like none of it ever mattered.

He'd forgotten everything. The vows. The promises. The way he once told me, "Babe, no matter what happens, I'm on your side. Always. I trust you."

Yeah. Men's promises? Always breakable. And Maverick was just another classic example.

From downstairs, a voice floated up:

"Sir, it's time for lunch."

Maverick rubbed his temples, got up, and walked out—right as Lucinda emerged from the master bedroom.

"Maverick, Quincey's leg's still bad. Carry her down for lunch, would you?"

The house literally had an elevator. And a wheelchair. But sure, let's make Maverick the hero.

He never lifted a finger like that for me. Always quick to snap, criticize, find fault. I used to wonder—if being with me was such a burden, why didn't he just say no to Grandma Rosalee's plan? She adored him. She never would've forced it.

He had choices. He just didn't care enough to make the right one.

Why act like he loved me if he never did?

I really thought I'd finally mattered to him. Lived in that delusion, stupidly happy. Even Lucinda's shade didn't faze me back then.

But it didn't matter. Because at the end of the day, I was never enough to beat the girl he never got over.

The three of them rode the elevator down. Maverick carried Quincey like she was made of glass, then eased her into her chair.

"Wow, all my favorites," she said, eyes glowing at him. "Thanks for remembering."

Lucinda chimed in with that syrupy smile. "Well, you two used to be a thing. If he still remembers, it must mean he never really let you go."

Maverick cut her off, voice sharp. "Mom, leave the past where it belongs."

He then shot a look at the table, clearly unimpressed. "Who cooked today?"

Gerard, the house manager, stepped up. "The new chef. Something wrong, sir?"

Maverick frowned. "It's different. Never mind. You can go."

Throughout the meal, Lucinda and Quincey were all smiles, chatting like nothing had happened. Maverick? Barely touched his food, chewing like it was cardboard.

I hovered nearby, watching. Not gonna lie—there was a tiny flicker of satisfaction.

Back when he started working, his picky eating got worse. I'd bent over backwards—hired the city's top nutritionist, tested recipes nonstop. I was up before sunrise hitting the market, hunting down the freshest stuff you couldn't find at any fancy store. Eventually, I got him eating like a human again.

Lucinda clocked his barely touched plate and frowned. "Maverick, really? You can't eat? Stella knows you'll only eat her cooking, yet she's still off doing who knows what."

Quincey jumped in. "Maybe it's my fault. Stella's probably upset. Want me to call her and explain?"

Maverick's jaw tightened. "I'm not dependent on her. Let her do whatever she wants."

He shoved a few more bites in like he had something to prove—like choking down that food meant he didn't miss mine.

"I can cook for you," Quincey offered, all sugary sweet. "You used to love my soufflé omelet, remember?"

She caught his cold shoulder toward me and looked way too pleased. With a smug little nod, she had the maid wheel her into the kitchen. A few minutes later, boom—soufflé omelet, right in front of him.

I just watched. He ate. Bite after bite. And yeah—I laughed at myself. Real bitter kind of laugh.

So that was the truth. No wonder he begged for soufflé omelets after we got married. I actually thought he liked them. Joke's on me—he was just using my hands to relive whatever he had with Quincey.

And me? I was the idiot who believed every lie, walking straight into my own downfall with a smile.

Quincey, playing the part, turned to him. "We've got rehearsal today. Can you take me?"

He raised a brow. "Didn't you mess up your leg?"

"It's just a little swollen," she said, brushing it off. "I'll be fine. I've gotta watch over things. You know how lazy they get when I'm not around."

What finally pushed me to divorce him happened three months ago.

Quincey brought her troupe back to Elencia for a competition. The second Maverick found out, he suddenly had "company business" and ditched me to go play escort. If no one had sent me the photos, I might've actually believed the lie.

Maverick never turned Quincey down. Ever. One call, one text—he was there. No hesitation. No excuses.

Now? I just hoped my body would be found soon so I could go see my parents—the only people who ever really loved me.

Seriously, what did I do to deserve this? I'd already paid with my life. And even dead, I still wasn't free. My soul was stuck on a leash, tied to Maverick, only able to drift as far as he did.