I was trudging toward the guest wing, suitcase dragging behind me, the sound echoing down the corridor like a quiet declaration of defeat. Everything I had left in the world rattled inside that bag.
He stopped mid-step.
Without turning fully around, he muttered to the chef, “Prepare two more plates. The ones Avery prefers. Set three places.”
That made me pause.
For half a second, I wondered if I’d imagined it. If there was regret buried somewhere beneath his arrogance. A hollow attempt at decency—setting a place for me at the table while his mistress occupied the Don’s bed.
The thought was almost laughable.
He couldn’t remember the date we first met. Couldn’t be bothered to unlock his phone for me. Yet now he expected rosemary lamb and a place setting to mean something?
I bit down hard on my teeth and kept walking.
The guest room door closed behind me with a soft click that landed heavier than any insult. The silence pressed in instantly, thick and accusing, as though the walls themselves understood I no longer belonged here.
I dropped my bag at the foot of the bed and knelt to unzip it.
The moment the zipper parted, my stomach sank.
Every piece of clothing inside had been destroyed.