My brother still hadn’t opened his eyes.

Every morning and night, I stared at my phone waiting for something—an update, a call, a text—anything to tell me he was improving. But nothing ever came. The doctors repeated the same lines like a broken record: stable, yes, but still unresponsive. No progress. No difference.

And Kael? Not once did he bring it up.

Not even a single question about the only family I had left. He didn’t even bother to pretend interest. Instead, I bit down on the ache in my chest, kept my face blank, and carried out every single duty expected of me. I handled the flowers, tested menus, inspected decorations, arranged every last detail for his grand birthday party. All of it. Alone.

Meanwhile, Kael and Cassia were parading through designer shops, laughing together as they tried on jeweled chokers, bickered playfully over couture dresses, and posed like they were starring in their own romance drama. They basked in luxury and adoration while I lived on sleepless nights, raw hands, and exhaustion that gnawed at my bones.

“You’re incredible, Amara,” Cassia would purr sweetly whenever Kael happened to walk by, looping her arm through mine for show. “Truly, thank you so much for all this. I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard?”

But the second his back was turned, her nails would dig into my skin, her eyes sharp and merciless. “Keep grinning like a loyal servant,” she’d hiss. “That role suits you.”

By the time the actual night of Kael’s birthday arrived, I was held together by nothing but sheer willpower. My body screamed in protest, my head throbbed endlessly, and my lungs were still far from healed—but I forced myself to appear. Someone had shoved a silver dress into my hands at the last moment, and I slipped it on, entering the glittering ballroom as if I belonged there.

Just one night. That was all I needed to endure. After tonight, I would be gone.

The documents had arrived earlier that morning—my name officially erased from the records. Amara had ceased to exist.

The venue shimmered with opulence. Crystal chandeliers painted the room in golden light, the clinking of champagne glasses mingled with the soft hum of violins, and camera flashes captured every glittering detail. At the center of it all stood Kael, radiating untouchable charm, his arm snugly wrapped around Cassia as he smiled at her like she was the only star in his universe.

He even raised a toast in her name. “And I want to give a special thanks to Cassia for her help in making this evening possible. Please, everyone, applaud her. She has always stood by me.”

The hall erupted in claps. I remained hidden in the sea of guests, my presence reduced to nothing more than that of hired help. No acknowledgment. No gratitude. As if the weeks of work had all been Cassia’s doing.

The lie was seamless. The crowd swallowed it whole. They believed she was the woman Kael had kept hidden. They thought she was his true wife. Not me. Never me.

I turned to leave quietly before the music and dancing began, but an event staffer stopped me, whispering that I was needed to serve drinks at the VIP section. His section.

My throat tightened. My hands shook. But I nodded anyway.

Carrying the tray, I walked forward, each step heavier than the last. And then, before I could steady myself, everything unraveled.

Cassia slid her chair back just so, the heel of her stiletto catching the edge of my dress. I stumbled, the tray tipping forward as crystal glasses toppled and shattered, spilling liquid across the marble floor with a deafening crash.

Gasps filled the air. The hem of Cassia’s gown was splattered, sticky with juice.

“Oh no! Are you all right?” she cried theatrically, clutching her hands to her mouth, her tone dripping with fake horror.

Kael’s fury was instant, his glare scorching me. “Amara, what the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you even manage serving drinks?”

I pushed myself up slowly, my knees raw, my dignity torn. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t bother making excuses,” he cut in sharply. “Pathetic.”

Before I could defend myself further, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Whispers spread, people gasped, phones buzzed, and the giant projector screen suddenly lit up.

And then I saw them. Images. Edited, fabricated, obscene. Photos of me naked, with Kael, in compromising poses—intimate touches, stolen moments twisted into something filthy.

The murmurs became daggers.

“Wait, isn’t she supposed to be his wife?”

“I thought she was only the planner.”

“That looks exactly like Kael.”

“Then what is she? Mistress? Affair?”

Dozens of eyes seared into me, their judgment suffocating.

Kael’s expression darkened, not with outrage at the lies, but with disgust at being connected to me at all.

He seized the microphone. “She is not my wife,” he declared, voice cold and sharp enough to cut through the chaos. “She’s nothing but a woman who tried to seduce me. A mistress, nothing more. Cassia is my wife—the love of my life.”

My entire body went cold.

Then the security guards appeared, their hands rough, pushing and pulling me toward the exit.

“Get her out!” Kael barked. “I don’t want her ruining tonight.”

And just like that, I was dragged away.

The scenes still burned behind my eyes, etched into me as though they’d been carved straight into my skin.

I couldn’t say how long I stood there—paralyzed, rooted in place—forced to witness the grotesque theater they displayed for everyone to see. They twisted my existence into a cruel caricature: a pathetic, clinging woman chasing a man who never once acknowledged me. My face, my body, my humiliation—broadcast like cheap entertainment for the crowd to jeer at.

And then his voice cut through, icy, deliberate, each word a blade.

“She is not my wife. She is a temptress who trapped me. Nothing but a mistress.”

And Cassia—dear God, Cassia.

She pressed her hand to her chest, letting out a wounded gasp.

“I didn’t know she’d been betraying me this whole time,” she declared, her tone soaked in false heartbreak. “I treated her like blood, like my own sister…”

It was flawless. Their little show.

But I did not fall apart. I did not scream. I didn’t sink to my knees and beg for someone, anyone, to believe me.

No.

I turned and walked away.

Outside, the chill of the night cut sharper than I’d anticipated. Or perhaps it was the crushing reality—everything collapsing all at once—that made it hard to breathe. My heels struck the pavement as I left the glittering ballroom behind, each click echoing like a verdict. I kept walking, not caring if the world was still watching me unravel.

By the time I reached the mansion, I didn’t pause. Straight to my room, straight to escape. My hands shook slightly as I folded what little I had, what remained of me. A few clothes. A few belongings. Whatever fragments of dignity I could salvage.

It was finished.

My name had been erased, stripped from every record.

To them, I was already nobody.

As I slid the last shirt into the suitcase, my phone buzzed against the table.

A message. From Kael.

“Forget everything I said earlier. Ignore the photos. I had no choice—it was to protect you… and the company. After tonight, I’ll make it up to you. A gift, a trip, anything you want. Let’s talk later, okay? I’m sorry.”

I stared blankly at the glowing screen.

Was he actually serious?

Another apology. Another promise wrapped in gold and silk, designed to buy my silence and my forgiveness. That had always been his way—money as his weapon, luxury as his bandage, hollow “sorry” as his refrain.

I let out a sharp laugh, bitter and jagged.

He still thought I was the same girl who would cling to his words.

But I wasn’t. Not anymore.

I didn’t bother to reply.

Instead, I slid open the drawer, retrieved the marriage contract I had hidden, and laid it flat on the vanity. I placed the signed divorce documents beside it, the ink dark and final. And then… the ring.

The very ring he had slipped onto my finger with the promise, “I want you to belong to me.”

Now it was nothing but a worthless piece of metal.

I arranged them neatly on the table.

And then I left. Without hesitation. Without turning back.

---

Kael woke with a start, his body heavy with exhaustion and champagne, though it wasn’t just the alcohol dulling his senses—it was the memory of everything that had unfolded the night before. Every calculated phrase, every carefully delivered lie replayed in his mind.

But he wasn’t worried. He would fix it. He always did.

He grabbed his phone, half expecting a message from Amara, maybe a long paragraph of hurt or silence broken by her forgiveness. Instead, there was nothing. Not a single notification.

Strange.

Maybe she was sulking. Maybe she wanted him to make some grand gesture. That was fine—he knew how to play that game. So he opened their chat and typed quickly:

“Pack my suits for the trip, and call the driver. I sent you something—it’ll arrive soon. We’ll talk when I get back.”

He pressed send and waited.

Nothing.

No reply.

A faint unease stirred in his chest.

He called her number.

One ring. Two. Three.

Voicemail.

His jaw tightened. He tried again. And again. Each attempt met with the same dead silence. His patience thinned. His nerves frayed.

He shoved his watch onto his wrist and stormed from his room, shouting into the hallway:

“Amara! Stop this nonsense and get ready! We leave in an hour!”

The silence mocked him.

“Amara?” His voice rose, sharper, echoing through the long corridor.

Still nothing.

He quickened his pace, the stillness of the mansion pressing down on him, each empty step feeding the dread clawing at his gut. He reached her door and pushed it open—only to freeze.

The room was bare.

The bed was perfectly made. The closet shelves were stripped clean. Her books, her dresses, her perfumes—gone. Only a faint trace of her scent lingered, haunting the curtains like a ghost.

He stepped inside slowly, his mind refusing to accept the truth staring him in the face.

Then his eyes landed on the vanity.

A white envelope.

His fingers trembled as he picked it up, sliding the papers free. Divorce. Signed. Irrevocable. Final.

Beside it lay the wedding ring he had once pressed onto her finger, back when promises still meant something.

Kael stared. His face blank, his mind reeling, his throat closing around words he couldn’t form. And then, in a sudden burst, he snapped back to life.

“Jared!” he bellowed, the sound crashing through the halls. “Find her! Now! Check the cameras, question every servant! She couldn’t have gone far!”

The butler appeared quickly, tension written across his face. “Yes, sir.”

Minutes stretched into a torment. Slow, suffocating. Kael paced, his phone clenched tight in one hand, while in the other, he gripped the tiny band of metal Amara had abandoned.

His thoughts churned. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she just needed to cool off. She’d be back. She always came back.

The silence dragged on until Jared returned, eyes lowered.

“Sir… she’s gone.”