Chapter 2
Damian enjoyed that.
He had always enjoyed visible proof that he had found the bruise.
“Because you forgot what you were before me.”
The sentence landed with a clean little sound inside me.
There it was.
Not heartbreak.
Not rage.
Confirmation.
For eight years, I had heard versions of that sentence at dinners, galas, company retreats, family brunches, behind closed doors, and in front of his mother, Celeste, who smiled at me as if I were a stain on white linen.
You were lucky.
You should be grateful.
You don’t understand pressure.
You wouldn’t have this life without me.
You are very sweet, Clara, but let the serious people speak.
Damian leaned lower.
“You were a charity case in a cheap black dress when I married you.”
He smiled.
“I gave you my name, my house, my world, and now that you asked for divorce, you can learn what life looks like without me.”
The woman by the elevator looked away.
A court clerk passed with a stack of files pressed to his chest.
My hand tightened around the suitcase.
Damian looked at the movement with satisfaction.
“Beg,” he said.
I stared at him.
“Do it now.”
He lowered his voice until the words belonged only to us.
“I might be generous enough to pay for a motel.”
For one second, I lowered my head.
My shoulders shook once.
Damian thought I was crying.
He had always mistaken silence for surrender.
He turned toward the elevator.
“Goodbye, Clara.”
The doors opened.
“Try not to embarrass yourself.”
Damian walked inside without looking back.
Only when the elevator doors closed did I lift my face.
No tears.
Just one cold, steady breath.
I opened my banking app.
Frozen.
Closed.
Removed.
Denied.
Then I opened another screen.
A secure message waited inside an encrypted application Damian had never known existed.
Is the wolf outside the door?
I typed with one thumb.
Yes.
The reply came within two seconds.
Then open the cage.
I stared at those four words until another elevator arrived.
No one followed me inside.
I pressed the button for the lobby, rolled my suitcase beside my leg, and watched the numbers descend.
Eight years earlier, Damian Wolfe had fallen in love with how little space I occupied.
He had mistaken that for weakness.
The truth was more complicated.
I had grown up in a house where money had to be stretched until it became transparent.