I lingered before rising, aching to see Isla’s room, to find a photo album, anything.
When I opened the door, my breath caught.
The room was bare. Completely stripped. Even her drawings on the walls were painted over.
Nothing remained. Not a single trace.
He had erased our child.
I slid down the wall, shaking, letting out a fractured scream that echoed until it faded into nothing.
When I could move again, I went to the master bedroom. My head spun, but I clung to a small hope—maybe Damian had kept something hidden: ballet shoes, a photo. Anything.
I froze.
Everything was exactly as I had left it. My clothes hung in the closet. My perfume sat on the dresser. Sheets folded neatly.
Why erase our daughter but preserve me?
I opened drawers, searching blindly. Then I found it: a box of condoms, freshly opened, tucked in the bedside table.
My stomach twisted.
So that was it. That was the reason. He’d preserved this room for their little games—maybe it thrilled him to have his mistress on the same bed we once shared, surrounded by the remnants of my life.
A wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom and emptied everything inside me until my stomach was hollow.