---- Chapter 9 | walked to the county clerk's office like a zombie. My body moved, but my mind was a wasteland. | was given a piece of paper, a legal document with official seals and signatures. It stated that the marriage between Blake Wallace and Ellen Strong was dissolved. | traced my maiden name, Strong, with my finger. It felt like an identity | hadn't inhabited in a lifetime. Tears, which | thought were long gone, welled up and fell onto the document, smudging the ink. They were not tears of sadness for the marriage, but tears of grief for the woman | had been, the woman who had died alongside my father. | went back to the mansion one last time. It was no longer my home; it was a crime scene. | packed the one small bag | had, filled with the remnants of my old life. Celesta was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. She was dressed in an elaborate, flowing gown, looking like a malevolent goddess. She held a plane ticket in her hand. "You've been looking so drab lately," she said, her voice full of false concern. "All this mourning is bad for your aura. I've decided to send you on a pilgrimage. To Provence, to gather lavender for my purification baths. Blake agrees it's for the best." ---- She was exiling me, sending me on another demeaning errand, treating me like a servant she could dispatch at will. She thrust the ticket into my hand. "The flight is next Tuesday. Don't be late." Blake came down the stairs then. He saw me with my bag, and Celesta with the ticket. He saw my bruised face, my hollow eyes, my rain-soaked, filthy hospital gown. He saw all of it, and his expression didn't change. It remained a mask of cold indifference. He walked to Celesta's side, placing a gentle hand on her waist. "Is everything taken care of, my love?" he asked her, his voice soft. "Yes, darling," she purred, leaning against him. "Ellen is going to be a good girl and run an errand for me. It will do her good to get away." They walked past me, out the front door, without another look or word. Their perfect, monstrous world was intact. | was just a piece of trash being swept out of their way. | looked down at the plane ticket in my hand. Flight 815 to Provence. Then | looked at my bag, at the divorce decree tucked inside. A plan, cold and clear, began to form in the ruins of my mind. ---- | left that house and never looked back. | walked until | reached a bus station. | bought a ticket to a town I'd never heard of, a place far away from New York City. In a small, dingy motel room, | used a prepaid credit card I'd kept hidden to buy a fake ID online. It was a risk, but | had nothing left to lose. The day of the flight, | did not go to the international terminal. Instead, with my new ID, | bought a one-way ticket to Portland, Oregon. The flight was leaving from a different terminal at the same time. | tore the ticket to Provence into tiny pieces and threw them in a trash can. As | sat in the crowded, noisy departure lounge for my flight to Portland, | let myself remember. | remembered Blake' s face after the crash, full of pain and love for me. | remembered his promise to never let anything hurt me. A bitter smile touched my lips. The promise was a lie. The love was an illusion. The man who. made them was gone, and | was finally, truly, leaving him behind. The boarding call for my flight to Oregon echoed through the terminal. | stood up, picked up my small bag, and walked toward the gate. | didn't look back. The plane climbed into the sky, breaking through the gray ---- In the back of the limousine, the champagne flute slipped from Blake's hand, shattering on the floor. His blood ran cold. Flight 815. The flight he had allowed Celesta to send me on. The flight | was supposed to be on.