Chapter 2: I Haven't Cried in Fifteen Years

Isabella's POV

The surgical scalpel trembled in my hand as I pressed it against my wrist. The cold metal bit into my skin, just enough to leave a thin red line.

Then my phone buzzed.

The harsh blue light cut through the darkness of the destroyed bedroom. A message notification from Selena. My finger hesitated over the screen, the scalpel still poised in my other hand.

I clicked the video.

The screen filled with a scene that felt like a knife twisting in my chest. Damian sat in some fancy living room I'd never seen before, his arm wrapped around Selena who was curled against him like a satisfied cat. Across from them, on a matching ivory sofa, sat my father Edwin and my stepmother Camila.

All four of them held champagne flutes. Crystal catching warm light from what looked like a penthouse apartment.

They were celebrating.

My husband, my father, my stepmother, and my stepsister. A perfect little family unit, toasting to something that had destroyed my world just hours ago.

I stared at the screen, my fingers shaking. The scalpel in my other hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

'I'm the outsider here. I'm the one who doesn't belong. Just like always.'

The video triggered something deep in my memory. A flash of another scene from twenty-two years ago. I was ten, peeking through the stair railings as Edwin brought pregnant Camila home for the first time. I could still see it so clearly: my father's arm around Camila's waist as he showed her around our house, explaining where everything was, while my mother stood in the kitchen doorway like a ghost.

"Mommy, why is daddy hugging that lady?" I had whispered when I found her later.

Mom's voice had been so quiet, so broken. "Sometimes daddies find new mommies, baby. But you'll always be my little angel."

But I hadn't been enough to keep her alive.

Sitting here in the wreckage of my own marriage, I suddenly understood something that had taken me fifteen years of psychological training to recognize. I'd become a therapist because I wanted to save women like my mother. Women who were replaced, discarded, forgotten. Women who chose silence over screaming, who disappeared rather than fight.

And now I was becoming one of them.

A single tear dropped onto the scalpel blade.

I blinked, startled. When was the last time I'd cried? I couldn't remember. Not during my mother's funeral. Not during my wedding. Not during any of the countless arguments with Damian about my emotional unavailability.

But here I was, sitting in broken glass and moonlight, crying over a video of my replacement family.

'What is this feeling? This tearing sensation in my chest... is this heartbreak? Rage? Or just disappointment?'

Another tear fell, then another. I stared at the blade in my hand, watching my reflection fracture in the wet metal.

"Fuck this."

The words came out of nowhere, raw and foreign in my clinical vocabulary. I hurled the scalpel toward the wall with all the force I could muster. It embedded itself in the drywall with a satisfying thunk, the handle quivering.

And then the dam broke.

I pressed my hands to my face and sobbed. Not the quiet, dignified tears I'd perfected in private moments, but ugly, gasping sobs that shook my entire body. I collapsed onto my knees among the broken mirror fragments, not caring about the glass cutting through my silk pajamas.

Fifteen years of suppressed emotions hit me like a freight train. Grief for my mother, who'd never lived to see me graduate, get married, or build a career. Rage at my father, who'd replaced us both without looking back. Fury at Damian for making me feel broken, unwanted, frigid. Hatred for Selena and Camila, who collected men like designer handbags.

But underneath it all was something else. Something that surprised me with its intensity.

Relief.

The thought came through the storm of emotions like lightning. I cried harder, my body shaking with the force of feelings I'd locked away since childhood. The broken glass around me caught the moonlight, creating tiny rainbows on the walls.

I cried until my throat was raw, until my eyes were swollen shut, until every muscle in my body ached from the violence of my grief. And somewhere in that storm, exhaustion finally claimed me. I curled up on the floor among the ruins of my marriage and fell into the deepest sleep I'd had in years.

When I woke up, golden morning light was streaming through the venetian blinds. I was still on the floor, my body stiff and sore, but something fundamental had shifted.

I sat up slowly, surveying the damage. Damian's side of the closet remained empty. The bed was still unmade from yesterday's betrayal. The broken glass still littered the floor like frozen tears.

But I wasn't angry anymore.

I wasn't heartbroken either.

I felt light. Like someone had removed a weight I hadn't even realized I was carrying.

'I'm not my mother,' I thought, touching my lips in surprise. 'She valued loyalty in love. She'd rather have nothing than settle for scraps. But unlike her, my life isn't just about romance. I have my career, my future, my skills. A cheating, emotionally absent husband? Good riddance.'

I was smiling. When was the last time I'd smiled and meant it?

"Hello there, feelings," I said aloud to the empty room. "It's been a while."

The house felt different as I made my way downstairs. Lighter somehow, as if Damian's absence had taken some oppressive weight with it. In the kitchen, I made a simple breakfast. Toast and coffee, nothing elaborate. For the first time in three years, I wasn't preparing a meal for someone who barely acknowledged my existence.

I hummed as I ate, an unconscious melody that felt rusty but genuine. Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows, warming my skin and making the marble countertops gleam. Even the simple act of eating felt different when I wasn't analyzing every bite, wondering if I was performing adequately as a wife.

By nine-thirty, I had a destination in mind. I changed into a simple black pantsuit and grabbed my keys. My white sedan sat alone in the garage, no longer overshadowed by Damian's flashy sports car.

I drove with the music on for the first time in months, letting the familiar streets of Palo Alto flow past me. The medical center appeared ahead, but I turned into the parking structure of a different building. The Palo Alto Psychology Center was more modern than my practice, all glass and steel surfaces that screamed Harvey Medical Group money.

The familiar building sparked something in my chest. Anticipation? Mischief? I couldn't quite identify the feeling, but it felt good.

"Dr. Claire! What a surprise! Are you here to see Dr. Harvey?" The receptionist looked up with bright recognition.

"Is he in?"

"He is, but..."

I didn't wait for her to finish. I knew exactly where I was going. The elevator carried me to the top floor, past offices and conference rooms I could navigate blindfolded. Alexander's corner office door loomed ahead, the nameplate gleaming in the hallway light.

I didn't knock.

The door swung open to reveal Alexander Harvey hunched over his desk, coffee mug in one hand and patient files spread before him. When he saw me, his green eyes went wide with shock. Coffee sprayed across his papers as he choked on his drink.

"Jesus Christ, Isabella! What the hell are you doing here? Are you trying to kill me?"

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms and feeling genuinely amused for the first time in months. "Nice to see you too, Alex."

He frantically dabbed at the coffee-soaked documents with tissues, his dark hair falling across his forehead. When he looked up at me again, his expression was wary.

"You maniac, what do you want this time? I haven't poached any of your patients in weeks!"