Chapter 2

Three days later, Dalia and I were discharged from the hospital—on the same day.

Her side was a celebration. Laughter, flowers, a stream of visitors visiting the baby. Even my mother-in-law, who usually wore a permanent scowl, was suddenly all warm smiles and baby talk.

But when her eyes met mine, that smile twisted. There it was—barely concealed disgust, a flicker of venom that disappeared as fast as it came, replaced by doting coos as she turned back to cradle her precious grandson.

I stood alone in the hallway, clutching a small hospital bag stuffed with the bare essentials I’d brought over the last few days. No one had come for me.

As I followed the Ashbourne family to the car, keeping a polite distance, my mother-in-law turned with a scoff. “What, you think you're coming back to our house? Don’t you have any shame? Dalia is the daughter-in-law of the Ashbourne family now. You think you're staying on as the housemaid?”

Her voice was sharp enough to slice skin, but I didn’t have the energy to fight. Not anymore.

“I’m just going back to pack my things,” I said quietly.

She let out a harsh laugh. “Your things? Please. Everything you own was bought by my son. It all belongs to him. Don’t even think about taking anything.”

Her words hit harder than they should have. I was already weak, physically and emotionally drained. I couldn’t even muster the strength to argue.

That was when Dante finally spoke up, his tone casual, almost bored. “Let her take what she wants, Mom. It’s not like we need it.”

But of course, his mother couldn’t leave it at that.

“Not need it?” she snapped. “Those things cost money! If we don’t keep them, we could sell them. Who knows? Maybe Dalia will want something.”

Dalia stepped in with a gentle, oh-so-gracious smile. “It’s fine, Mom. I wouldn’t use anything she touched anyway. Let her take them.”

Dante nodded in agreement. “Exactly. If Dalia wants anything, I’ll buy her new.”

Husband and wife—no, lovers—performing their little duet, as if I were already the outsider. But I was still his legal wife. Or so I thought.

I said nothing, just swallowed the lump in my throat and focused on keeping my footing.

Back at the house—the house I once thought was mine—I packed everything I could call my own.

Three years of marriage, and not a single item in my suitcase had been a gift from Dante.

Not even the wedding ring.

That had been a simple silver band, no inscription, no thought. And now, on Dalia’s finger? A massive pink diamond sparkled shamelessly.

I recognized it instantly.

It was the same ring I had pointed out once, a rare moment when I’d dared to ask him for something. He had scoffed and said diamond rings were “a waste of money”—that I stayed home all day and didn’t need something so extravagant.

But for Dalia, he bought it without hesitation.

In that moment, the truth was crystal clear: the difference between being loved and merely tolerating.

There was nothing left in this house worth mourning.

Dragging my suitcase behind me, I walked past the living room. Dante sat on the couch like a man without a care in the world.

“I’ll come by in a few days so we can sign the divorce papers,” I said, my voice steady, stripped of emotion.

“Divorce?” My mother-in-law blinked like I’d lost my mind. “Why would my son divorce you?”

I turned to Dante, confused—until he pulled out our marriage certificate, the same one we’d used to pretend we were a real couple.

“You don’t need to worry about a divorce,” he said coolly. “This marriage certificate? It’s fake. We were never legally married.”

Then, without hesitation, he tore it to shreds right in front of me.

The sound of the paper ripping echoed like thunder. My knees nearly buckled.

Three years.

Three years of sacrifice, humiliation, pain… All for a lie.

I remembered how my hands trembled when I first held that certificate, heart full of foolish hope. I thought it made me his. I thought it gave me some kind of place in his world.

Turns out, it was just another weapon to control me.

All those nights he’d disappeared—“business trips,” he said. I clung to the hope that at least I was his real wife, that he’d always come back to me.

But I wasn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

The man I’d loved for three years was a liar. A bastard. A fraud.

And still, my mother-in-law couldn’t keep her poison to herself. “You? A wife?” she spat. “You can’t even give my son a child. Just look at you. Filthy hair, pale face, clothes hanging off your bones. There’s not a shred of femininity left in you. And you still think you deserve a piece of our family’s wealth? Dream on.”

I looked down at myself—thin, tired, frail. My body had twisted from pregnancy. I’d barely recovered from the miscarriage. My skin was dull, my features unfamiliar.

But this was their doing.

They had destroyed me—and now they mocked what was left.

Something inside me cracked. I pressed a hand to my mouth to keep from sobbing aloud, turned away, and pushed my suitcase toward the front door.

I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

And just as I stepped out into the sunlight, Dalia walked in, fresh from visiting her family, her lips painted in perfect pink, her face glowing with triumph.

She didn’t even have to say a word.

She had won.

But this story isn’t over.

Not yet.