Chapter 8

The hospital smelled like bleached apologies and second chances. I walked into the private wing with a bouquet of wilted lilies clenched in my hand like a dare. They drooped like they’d seen too much already, like they knew this visit wasn’t about healing.

Nurses glanced up and then away, pretending to be busy with clipboards that didn’t have my name on them. I signed in with slow strokes—Pearl V. Antonov. Let the whole damn building see it. “I’m not jealous,” I whispered. “I’m trying to make sense of what’s happening.”

He shook his head, voice sharp. “Maybe if you weren’t so buried in your job, you’d see that nothing’s going on. Jesus.”

And that was the end of it. I shut up. I chose to trust him over myself.

Then the weekend trips started. Jacob, Luther, and Lavenia.

“We just needed a break,” Luther told me once. “You’re always working anyway.”

“You could’ve invited me.”

He shrugged. “You would’ve said no.”

Lavenia chimed in then, wearing one of my jackets. “Yeah, you’re always exhausted. We didn’t want to stress you out more.”

I remember staring at her for a full ten seconds, wondering when exactly she stopped pretending to be grateful.

“I don’t recall asking you,” I said flatly.

She smiled, soft and sweet. “Just trying to help.”

I laughed under my breath now, alone in the dark. I had defended her so many times—to myself, to Jacob, to Luther.

“She’s grieving,” I had said once. “She’s lonely. She needs people.”

She didn’t need people. She needed a crown. And she was building it out of everything I handed her.

I looked at one last photo. The four of us at the beach. Jacob’s arm around me, Lavenia just behind, eyes locked on him, smiling too hard like she knew I wouldn’t last.

I whispered, “You needed a place to rest, and I let you in. You needed a life, and I gave you mine.”

And the silence didn’t answer, because even it was tired of the sound of me losing.

I woke up before the sun had the chance to be smug about it. The ache in my side was still there—sharp, rhythmic, like a metronome of old mistakes—but I ignored it. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor for a while. Just sat there, hands on my thighs, letting the silence settle like dust.

I was tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes. The kind that wraps around your bones and makes every little movement feel like a chore. But something was different this morning. My mind wasn’t fogged. My thoughts weren’t racing. Just quiet. Clear. Dead calm.

They made a mess in a home I built.

Let them clean up the ashes.

I stood up, walked to the drawer, and pulled out the manila folder I kept buried beneath old tax returns and warranty receipts. Inside, crisp and untouched, was the deed. My name. Just mine, no Jacob. No Luther. No manipulative little houseguest whose perfume still clung to the hallway curtains.

I stared at it for a second. The ink was starting to fade, but the truth didn’t.

“Of course it’s mine,” I murmured.

And that was the only confirmation I needed.

I picked up the phone and dialed the real estate agent. She answered on the third ring, chipper in a way that made me want to hang up.

“Pearl, it’s early! Everything alright?”

I leaned against the wall and looked out the window at the garden I planted six years ago and stopped watering three months back.

“I want this house listed,” I said. “Today. No delays. ”

There was a pause on her end, like she was calculating how serious I was.

“Are you sure? I mean—it’s a premium property. You could take your time, maybe stage it—”

“I said today.” My voice didn’t rise. I didn’t need it to. “I want the sign up before sunset. No calls. No updates. Just handle it.”

“Understood.”

I hung up before she could try sounding supportive.

By the time the sun actually showed its face, I was already knee–deep in boxes. I didn’t pack like someone leaving home. I packed like someone shutting down an office. Efficient. Detached. Only what mattered.

Blueprints. The single photo of my dog, Bastian —his tail mid–wag, tongue out, eyes wide with trust he shouldn’t have had in this place.

Lavenia said she didn’t see him in the garage. That’s what she told me through tears, the night his body was found crushed under the rear axle.

“I swear, Pearl, I–I didn’t know he was there. I didn’t see him—”

“No,” I had said back then. “Of course you didn’t. You never see anything unless it benefits you.”

And then she cried harder, like grief could be borrowed too.

I looked at the photo now and slipped it into the side of my duffel bag, careful not to crease it.

The rest? Trash.

Her makeup, her designer shoes she wore barefoot around the house. The silk robes that cost more than my mortgage payments. All of it—bagged in black plastic like something rotting. I didn’t even bother tying the bags. Just dragged them to the driveway and left them like she left apologies—half–done and stinking.

She didn’t live here anymore anyway. Jacob and Luther had pooled their bank accounts together to buy her a little white house three blocks from Jacob’s. They didn’t even try to hide it. Told me it was an “investment.” Said it was “temporary.” Said I was “reading into things again.”

I picked up my phone and called the lawyer.

“Pearl. What can I do for you?”

“I want you to prepare a notice,” I said, still sealing boxes while I talked. “Anyone who isn’t on the deed has three days to vacate and get their things. I don’t want excuses, discussions, sob stories, or last–minute begging. Three days. Make it official. Serve it straight.”

“Understood. I’ll draft it and send you a copy for review.”

“No need. I trust you.”

When I hung up, I saw Luther’s name flash on my screen.

Can we talk?

No punctuation. No apology. No context.

I blocked the number.

Then Jacob called. I let it ring once before answering.

“Pearl?”

I didn’t even sigh. “Eviction.”

“What?”

“Courtesy of the real owner. You’ve got three days to get your things out. After that, the locks change.”

“Pearl, wait—what the hell is going on? You’re overreacting.”

I sat on the stairs with the phone pressed to my ear and looked at the dent in the wall where Jacob once slammed a door too hard during a fight we never resolved.

“I’m done reacting,” I said. “I’m moving. You should try it.”

There was silence. Then I hung up.

By sunset, the house felt less like a home and more like a crime scene.

I walked through it one last time. Bare walls. Empty shelves. Shadows that didn’t know they were supposed to leave.

In the kitchen, I saw the ceramic mug with my name on it. The one Jacob got me during our second year together. The paint was chipped on the handle.

I picked it up. Held it for a second.

Then I let it drop.

The sound it made when it shattered wasn’t dramatic. Just final.

And that was enough.

Chapter 7

You don’t bring flowers to a burial. You bring reminders. And mine smelled faintly of rot.

The suite door creaked as I pushed it open with one finger.

Lavenia was lying on top of a bed dressed in champagne–colored linen—soft, expensive, and utterly wasted on her. The bruise near her temple looked faint now, barely purple. The rest was all theater. Her wrist had a bandage she probably made someone redo three times until it looked perfect for visitors.

And of course, she smiled when she saw me.

“Well, look who finally decided to grace me with her presence,” she purred, sitting up just enough to pose without wincing. “Thought you’d be too proud to show.”

I closed the door behind me, placed the wilted lilies on the chrome tray beside her, “I’m not here to comfort you, Lavenia. I’m here to tell you goodbye. The real kind.”

She sniffed the flowers. Her nose curled. “They’re drooping.”

“They’re appropriate,” I said. “A little decayed. A little honest. Like this conversation.”

She gave a fake little laugh, soft and bright like tinsel. “You always were so… poetic. It’s adorable that you still try to sound above it all, even now. But come on, Pearl. We both know why you really came.”

I tilted my head, amused. “Do we?”

“Oh, please.” She adjusted her robe like she was getting ready to be interviewed. “You needed to see it for yourself. How much better I look with him. With them. God, Jacob’s been glued to my side. And Luther? He looks at me like I’m glass. Like if he breathes too loud I’ll break. They’re obsessed with me now. I didn’t even have to ask.”

I laughed. Out loud. A slow, indulgent sound that filled the room like wine poured too fast.

“Is this your sales pitch, Lavenia? You got the two broken brothers and think that makes you a prize?”

Her smile faltered for half a second. I leaned in, voice calm.

“You can have them. You always could. They were yours the moment they flinched when I didn’t. Jacob was a coward in expensive shoes and Luther just wanted to be told what to feel. Congratulations. You won the leftovers.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of the sheets. “Don’t pretend you didn’t care. I saw the way Jacob used to look at you. He would’ve married you if you let him. You think I didn’t notice how he watched your hands when you smoked? Or how Luther always sat too close like some loyal little hound?”

I shrugged. “I knew. I also knew it wouldn’t last. Lust never does when it’s built on silence and secrets. What, you thought I’d cry? That I’d beg for scraps at your little hospital throne?”

Her face hitched. I saw the flicker of frustration beneath her mascara. “You’re lying. You still care. You always wanted Jacob.”

I stood up, walked to the window. The rain hadn’t started yet, but the sky outside looked like it wanted to sob.

“You know what I wanted?” I asked, my voice soft. “Peace. And a home that didn’t creak every time you lied. I wanted mornings without blood on the toothbrush and dinners without performance art. But you made sure I got neither.”

I turned back to her. “You don’t scare me anymore. You’re tired. Your tricks are tired. Jacob isn’t a trophy, Lavenia. He’s a punishment. And you, darling, are serving your sentence.”

“You think this is a punishment?” she snapped, all the sweetness gone now. “I’ve got the suite, the money, the men, and your name on everyone’s lips. I’m the one who gets to stay.” I walked over and dropped the doghouse key onto her lunch tray, where it clinked next to untouched soup.

“You’re staying in a gilded cage. Alone. That’s not winning. That’s just surviving with better curtains. Here’s the key to my doghouse. Go ahead and move in. It suits your vomit–colored soul.”

She was fuming now, but I was already halfway to the door.

“You don’t get to walk away,” she shouted. “You don’t get the last word!”

I opened the door, calm as fog. “Sweetheart, I already got the last word. You’re still trying to rewrite the sentence. And oh, ‘bout the wedding? You’re still invited. Not a guest, but a loser.”

I stepped into the hallway, peeling the hospital badge off my chest and tossing it in the trash. I didn’t need to slam the door to make a statement. My silence would echo plenty.

Then—voices.

“Pearl!”

Jacob. Followed by Luther. Both storming toward me like they thought they were still relevant. Luther’s eyes were sharp. Jacob looked like he hadn’t slept.

“What did you do?” Jacob snarled. “She’s screaming. What the hell did you say?”

“She’s crying,” Luther added. “Again. Screaming for you.”

I blinked at them both. Slowly. “I said goodbye. She didn’t like the taste.”

Jacob grabbed my wrist. Harder than necessary. “You’re coming back inside.”

I smiled, amused and untouched. “No, Jacob. I’m not. But you are. Go to her. Play the hero in her fever dream. That’s your role now, remember?”

“You’re so fucking cold,” he spat.

“And you’re so fucking late,” I replied. “Now let go of me.”