Chapter 2

The knock on the door came again — louder this time. Not a question, but a command.

Alaya wiped her cheeks and forced herself to her feet. She was still barefoot, wearing nothing but her robe, juice sticky on her fingers. When she opened the door, she expected a delivery man or maybe one of Darius’s assistants with some kind of explanation.

What she saw instead made her heart seize.

Two large men in navy uniforms stood in the hallway. Behind them, the concierge — Mr. Levingston, a man she’d known by name for two years — was wringing his hands like he didn’t want to be there.

“Ms. Moore?” one of the movers asked. “We’ve been sent by Westwood Holdings. We’re here to—”

“Wait,” she cut in. “What is this?”

Before he could answer, the two men brushed past her, entering the penthouse like they owned it. One headed straight to the living room, the other to the bedroom.

“Hey! Hold on—what are you doing?!”

“We’ve been instructed to remove all property owned by Mr. Westwood,” one said over his shoulder, already unplugging the television.

Alaya ran after him. “No, no—wait, you can’t just take things! This has to be a mistake.”

The concierge stepped inside quietly. “I’m sorry, Ms. Moore. The orders came through less than an hour ago.”

“Orders?” she repeated, breath catching. “Darius just left here this morning. He didn’t say anything about this!”

“I understand,” Levingston said softly, not meeting her eyes. “But it’s not a mistake. We’re just following protocol.”

“Just slow down for a second, okay?” Alaya said, her voice rising, panic clawing at her throat. “Let me call him. This doesn’t make any sense.”

The movers didn’t stop. One was already lifting her favorite velvet ottoman, the one Darius had teased her about when she insisted it "tied the room together."

She reached for her phone with trembling fingers and dialed Darius’s number.

It rang once. Twice.

Come on. Come on…

It rang a third time, then a fourth.

And then — it connected.

But it wasn’t his voice she heard.

It was a woman’s.

Smooth. Sweet like poison.

> “Well, well, well… If it isn’t the husband-stealer.”

Alaya’s blood ran cold.

“Janelle. I don’t have time for this,” she snapped. “I need to speak to Darius.”

“He’s busy,” Janelle replied, her tone laced with smugness. “And even if he weren’t, I’d never let him waste another breath on you. You’re done, sweetie. Your free ride’s over.”

“Janelle—”

“Do me a favor,” she said. “Get off this phone. And disappear from our lives.”

Then she hung up.

The silence on the line rang louder than any insult.

“Hello?” Alaya whispered. “Hello?!”

Nothing.

Just her own breath.

The phone slipped from her ear, her hand falling to her side.

Her legs felt numb again. Her throat burned from holding back a scream. She turned slowly, just in time to watch one of the movers packing up her shoe collection — a display of high-end heels she’d spent years building with Darius’s money and his supposed love.

“No! Not those. Please,” she pleaded. “Don’t touch those, I’ll pack them myself—just give me a second—please.”

But they didn’t hear her. Or didn’t care.

They took everything.

Designer bags. Her perfume tray. Her skin-care fridge. The art on the walls. The rugs. The furniture. Even the espresso machine.

By the time the last box was wheeled out, the penthouse was a hollow shell. Echoes where her laughter used to be.

And there she was — still barefoot, standing in the middle of the empty living room with nothing but her phone in her hand and tears drying on her cheeks.

Alaya slowly dropped to her knees.

She wasn’t even crying now. She was just… numb.

How could he?

After all the whispered promises. After telling her she was the one he would finally settle down with. After swearing she was different from the others.

How could he throw her out like garbage?

Mr. Levingston stood quietly by the door. Normally, he would have rushed her out by now — building policy. But not today. He looked at her the way someone looks at a dog hit by a car.

“Take your time,” he said gently. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

Alaya didn’t respond.

What was there to say?

She sat there for another ten minutes, staring at the spot where Darius’s watch used to sit on the coffee table. Where he used to kiss her on the neck from behind when she made tea. Where he used to pretend she was his world.

Eventually, she stood.

The only things she had left were her robe, her phone, and whatever dignity she could scrape together.

She wiped her face, drew a breath so deep it hurt, and walked to the elevator.

As it descended, she stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls — red-eyed, hollow, and barefoot like she didn’t belong in this world anymore.

The doors slid open.

And there they were.

Cameras. Reporters. Flashing lights.

“Ms. Moore!” someone shouted.

“Is it true you were just Darius’s side piece?”

The microphones came at her like knives.

“Alaya! Alaya!”

One woman shoved a phone in her face.

“Can you confirm or deny that you were just a glorified mistress?”