Chapter 3

It wasn’t the first time Paula had hurt me.

The physical pain was one thing—the scratched wrist, the sore scalp—but the deeper wounds had come long before tonight. Paula had never hidden her distaste for me. From the very beginning, she made it clear: I didn’t belong.

“You’re not one of us,” she had told me once at a family dinner, sipping wine like it was her crown. “He only married you because Sasha left. Don’t fool yourself, Lindsey. It’s always been Sasha.”

I remembered laughing it off then. A forced, awkward kind of laugh. Paula had always been bitter, dramatic. I thought she was trying to ruin us.

But now—tonight—I remembered every word. How she once told me she’d caught Alex staring at old pictures of Sasha on his phone. How she overheard him whispering her name during late-night calls. I’d brushed it off. Trusted him. Believed the gifts, the soft kisses, the sweet apologies.

“Lindsey, you’re the only one.”

He said it with such conviction that I had no reason to doubt him.

Or so I thought.

Now I knew better. He left me. On my birthday. For Sasha.

I dragged myself through our front door with scraped knees and a trembling body. My hands still stung from broken glass, my wrist throbbed where Paula had shoved me. But the worst pain was in my chest. A hollow, echoing ache.

The house was silent. Too silent.

I made my way to our bedroom—no, his bedroom now—and sat on the edge of the bed, wiping my smeared makeup with the back of my sleeve. I cleaned my wound with quiet care, wrapping it in gauze like I was patching over a deeper wound I couldn’t touch.

Then I stood, numb and furious.

I opened the closet and grabbed everything.

Photos. Suits. The perfume I bought him last Christmas. Notes. Gifts. Love letters written in his handwriting.

One by one, I tore them down.

But as I reached toward the back of the closet, something caught my eye—tucked behind an old box of winter clothes. A small velvet case. And a dusty black box beneath it.

I pulled it out, heart thudding.

The necklace shimmered even under the dim closet light. A rare piece. I recognized it immediately—it belonged to a Princess Diana collection that I had obsessed over. He once went to an auction hoping to win it for me, but came back saying, “It slipped through. Someone else bought it.”

But now, here it was. Inside our closet.

And beside it, a sealed letter—addressed to Sasha.

My hands trembled as I opened the envelope. Inside were more than just words. There were plans. Promises. Dates. Sentences like:

“Once the shares are transferred, I’ll come to you.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

“She was never you.”

I couldn’t breathe. He had lied about everything.

I stared at the necklace—this shining symbol of his love for her. The same necklace he told me he couldn’t get because “someone else” beat him to it. That someone had always been Sasha. It was never me.

Something snapped. With shaking hands, I grabbed the box, walked out to the patio, and poured lighter fluid into the small firepit we used in winter. I dropped the necklace and letters inside.

And I lit them. I watched them burn—slowly, then wildly—until all that remained was ash.

That was what he gave me. Ashes in place of a life. Ashes in place of love.

I walked back inside, feeling strangely calm. Not healed. Not whole. But lighter—like I had burned away some part of myself that had been waiting to leave all along.

Back in the bedroom, I sat down and picked up my tablet, planning to message my lawyer again—but a familiar ping interrupted me.

An email. From Alex’s account.

He must’ve forgotten he once synced his email to my tablet—years ago, when we first bought the house. I clicked without thinking.

The subject line read: “Final Confirmation Château de Clairmont Wedding Reservation”

My hands froze. I opened it.

A long thread of emails with a luxury venue coordinator in France. Confirming floral arrangements. Menu tastings. Guest accommodations.

At the bottom, a note:

“Please ensure privacy. The groom is Alex Hale. The bride, Sasha Elenora, wishes a full security lockdown to prevent press leaks. We’d prefer a winter ceremony—early December.”

I stared at the screen, unable to move.