---- Chapter 8 Jessica rushed to Ethan' s side, her face a mask of dramatic anguish. "Ethan! Oh, my love, are you alright?" she cried, dabbing at the superficial scratch on his arm with a delicate lace handkerchief she conveniently produced. "Speak to me! Don't you dare die on me, Ethan! We have a future together! Our future!" Her performance was worthy of an Oscar. Amelia watched, a cold detachment settling over her. This was a scene from a badly written play. Ethan, leaning heavily on Jessica, his face pale more from shock than actual injury, looked at Amelia. A faint, triumphant smirk touched his lips. "See, Amelia?" he rasped, his voice weak but laced with his usual arrogance. "I told you. | would die for Jessica. She's everything to me." He paused, his gaze hardening. "You? You're nothing. Less than nothing." He expected her to break, to dissolve into tears, to finally ---- understand her insignificance. He was still playing the old game, using Jessica to wound her. Amelia met his gaze, her own calm, almost pitying. "The divorce waiting period is almost over, Ethan," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "Just a few more days." She turned and walked away, leaving him with his minor wound and his dramatic leading lady. The sound of sirens grew closer. Someone must have called the police. She didn't look back. His words, his taunts, they no longer had the power to hurt her. He was right. She was nothing to him. And he, finally, was nothing to her. Amelia waited in the hospital corridor while Ethan was being treated for his "grievous" injury - a few stitches and a tetanus shot. A doctor emerged, looking mildly exasperated. "He'll be fine. It's a superficial cut. He can go home." Jessica was cooing over Ethan, fussing with his bandage, her devotion on full display for any onlookers. Amelia watched them, a strange sense of peace settling over her. ---- This was their drama. She was merely an unwilling spectator, soon to exit the theater for good. Amelia spent that night in her small, sparsely furnished temporary apartment, the one she'd rented under her maiden name. She packed her few remaining belongings into two suitcases. Her art supplies, her sketchbooks filled with new designs, the clothes she had bought for her new life in New York. Each item packed was another step towards freedom. She felt no sadness, no regret. Only a quiet anticipation. The dawn of a new day, a new life, was approaching. The next morning, Amelia met her lawyer, Mr. Davies, at his office. "Everything is in order, Ms. Hayes," he said, handing her a crisp, official-looking document. "The divorce was finalized by the court this morning. You are officially a free woman." He smiled warmly. "Congratulations." Amelia took the document, her fingers tracing the embossed seal. A free woman. The words resonated deep within her. A wave of relief, so profound it almost buckled her knees, ---- washed over her. She drove to the bank, the divorce decree clutched in her hand. She removed her wedding ring, a heavy, ornate diamond band that had always felt like a shackle. A faint white line remained on her finger, a ghost of her marriage. It would fade, she knew. She placed the ring, along with a copy of the divorce decree, into a small, unassuming velvet box. She added a brief, formal note: "Ethan, Our marriage is over. This chapter is closed. | wish you... whatever it is you seek. Amelia." No anger, no recrimination. Just a simple statement of fact. A final, definitive full stop. Ethan was still at his penthouse, recovering from his "ordeal," milking Jessica' s sympathy. He expected Amelia to show up, full of remorse, begging for forgiveness for... something. He was never quite clear what he expected her to be sorry for, only that she should be. He was lounging on the sofa, Jessica feeding him grapes, when his assistant announced Amelia' s arrival. "Let her wait," Ethan said dismissively. "She can stew in her own guilt for a while." ---- He was still convinced this was all part of her game. Amelia didn't wait. She walked into the living room, her expression calm, her eyes clear. She placed the small velvet box on the coffee table in front of him. "This is for you," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. She didn't look at Jessica, who was watching her with a mixture of suspicion and triumph. Her gaze was fixed on Ethan, a cool, appraising look that made him vaguely uncomfortable. Ethan felt a fleeting moment of unease. Amelia' s composure was... unnerving. She wasn't crying, wasn't shouting, wasn't pleading. She just stood there, calm and self-possessed. It was so unlike the Amelia he knew, the Amelia he could so easily manipulate. His phone buzzed. A message from Jessica, even though she was right beside him: "Get rid of her, darling. She' s spoiling the mood." He glanced at it, then back at Amelia. "What is this, Amelia?" Ethan asked, his voice laced with suspicion. "More trinkets? Another attempt to make me feel ---- something?" He gestured dismissively at the box. "I don't want it. Whatever it is." He picked up the box, intending to toss it aside, but its unassuming weight, its quiet presence, gave him pause. He looked at Amelia, expecting some sign, some tell. There was none. Amelia met his gaze one last time. The man she had loved, the man who had caused her so much pain. She felt... nothing. No anger, no sadness, not even pity. Just a vast, empty space where her love for him used to be. "Goodbye, Ethan," she said softly. And then, she turned and walked out of his apartment, out of his life, without a backward glance. The click of the door closing behind her was a sound of absolute finality. Amelia drove straight to the airport. She checked in her luggage, passed through security, and walked to her gate. As she sat waiting for her flight to New York, she took out her phone. ---- She systematically blocked Ethan' s number, Jessica' s number, the numbers of all the Caldwells and their circle. She deleted their contacts, erased their messages, wiped clean every digital trace of her old life. Her new life was about to begin. She would not be looking back. New York. The Design Institute. Her art. Her freedom. A small, genuine smile touched her lips.