The morning after Anthony’s call, I woke with a headache that wasn’t from lack of sleep, but from the weight of his voice echoing in my ears. You’ll never get anything without me. His arrogance had followed me into my dreams, poisoning even the small hours of the night.

Gracie was already up, moving about the kitchen when I dragged myself out of bed. The aroma of coffee lingered in the air, bitter and grounding. She slid a mug toward me the moment I sat down.

“You need to keep your strength, Kamilla,” she said softly. “Anthony won’t stop. You know that.”

I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, my lips pressed into a hard line. “I know. But I’m not going back.”

Before Gracie could reply, a heavy knock rattled the door. We froze. Another knock followed, harder, more impatient.

Gracie’s brows furrowed. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

My chest tightened. His voice soon confirmed it.

“Kamilla! Open this door. Now!”

The pounding grew louder, the demand more urgent. I stood, squaring my shoulders. “If I don’t face him now, he’ll never leave me alone.”

Ignoring Gracie’s protest, I went to the door and pulled it open.

Anthony stood there, tie loose, eyes blazing. His expression was a storm of fury and disbelief. “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” he sneered. “Pathetic.”

I stayed firm in the doorway, my hand still on the knob. “What do you want?”

“You know damn well what I want.” He stepped closer, his presence imposing, but I didn’t back down. “I want my wife back. You think you can walk out on me, humiliate me with divorce papers, and just move on?”

I met his glare with steady defiance. “I don’t think. I know. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

His lips curled into a cruel smile. “And how’s that working out for you? You couldn’t even land that job yesterday. Do you think I wouldn’t hear about it? Do you think anyone in this city would hire you without my blessing?”

The words struck like a slap. So he had sabotaged me. My chest burned, but I forced my expression into cold steel. “You destroyed my chance deliberately.”

“Of course I did,” he said without hesitation. “Because you don’t get to leave me and build a new life like I never existed. You’re nothing without me, Kamilla. Nothing.”

My fingers itched with the urge to strike him, but instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. One tap, and the video filled the silence. Maris’s laugh, sultry and smug. His own voice, dripping arrogance: ‘She’s nothing but an airhead bitch.’

Anthony’s face drained of color, but he masked it quickly with a scowl. “Turn that off.”

I held the phone firmly. “No. This is who you are, Anthony. Not a respected professor. Not a husband. Just a liar who thought he’d never be caught.”

His jaw clenched. He reached forward suddenly, trying to snatch the phone, but I stepped back, clutching it tight to my chest. Gracie appeared at my side, her voice sharp and unwavering.

“You need to leave, Anthony. Now.”

His glare shifted between us, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is over?” he hissed. “You think you’re free? You’ll come crawling back when you realize the world doesn’t care about you.”

I straightened, meeting his venom head-on. “I’d rather crawl alone than ever stand beside you again.”

“This isn’t over, Kamilla,” he spat before storming off down the hall. The slam of the stairwell door echoed like a gunshot.

The morning sun slid through my blinds, pale and hesitant, as though it knew how fragile I felt. I hadn’t slept much—Anthony’s words had wrapped around me like chains, tightening every time I closed my eyes. But when dawn came, so did my resolve.

Another interview. Another chance.

I pulled my best blazer from the closet, smoothing the fabric as though ironing out my doubts. My reflection in the mirror looked composed, but I could see the cracks beneath the surface—eyes ringed with fatigue, mouth pressed too tight. Still, I forced a smile. I needed to believe I could do this.

The office tower loomed like a glass giant against the sky. I checked in at the front desk, the receptionist offering me a smile I couldn’t quite return. Sitting in the waiting area, I whispered reminders under my breath. You are capable. You are worthy. This is your life, not his.

When my name was called, I stood with practiced confidence. The interview itself went smoothly—questions I had prepared for, answers I delivered clearly. For the first time in weeks, I felt steady.

But the look exchanged between the two panelists told me everything before the words left their mouths.

“Thank you for coming in, Ms. Hattaway. We’ll be in touch,” one said, his polite smile not reaching his eyes.

By the time I reached the lobby, my phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

My stomach twisted coldly. Against my better judgment, I answered the call.

“Strike two,” Anthony’s voice oozed through the speaker, triumphant and poisonous. “How many more times before you realize no one wants you?”

I hung up before he could finish, my hand trembling. Rage burned in my chest, but underneath it was something sharper—clarity. I couldn’t keep living this way, clawing at scraps of freedom while he poisoned every opportunity.

I stepped out into the street, and instead of heading home, I walked straight to the nearest travel agency. The decision came to me not as a thought, but as instinct, pure and unstoppable.

The woman behind the counter looked up with a practiced smile. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

“One ticket,” I said, my voice steady. “One way. To Rome.”

Her fingers paused on the keyboard, surprised, but she didn’t question me. Within minutes, I was holding the slip of paper that felt heavier than gold. My heart hammered as though it knew I had just altered the course of my life.

That night, my small apartment became a battlefield of decisions. I moved quickly, methodically, stuffing clothes into a suitcase, rolling documents into a folder, shoving shoes into the corners. Every zipper that closed felt like slamming a door on Anthony’s grip.

By dawn, I was at the airport, the buzz of travelers around me a strange comfort. The loudspeaker called out flights, children tugged at parents’ sleeves, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel trapped.

At the check-in counter, I handed over my passport and ticket. The agent gave me a nod, sliding back my boarding pass.

Gate 18. Rome.

Before heading through security, I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered for a moment—hesitation, regret, fear—but then I pressed down. One by one, I deleted messages, erased call logs, and finally, removed the SIM card. It clinked against the bottom of a trash bin with finality. Anthony’s shadow couldn’t reach me here. Not in the clouds. Not across the ocean.

I closed my eyes and whispered to myself, “You’re not gonna see me again. Goodbye, Anthony.”