Time dragged as Maverick stared down the divorce papers.

I still remembered exactly what I wrote—I didn't want anything. No strings. No drama. Just freedom from the Falkners. The settlement from my parents' accident? More than enough to stand on my own.

So why did he look like he was ready to explode?

He let out a smirk. "She really thinks this'll make me crack and come crawling back?"

Then—rip. Just like that, the agreement was in pieces.

"Tell her to quit the act. She's not some naive little girl anymore."

Each shred felt like it tore through my chest. His words—mean, petty—cut deeper than any paper ever could. Mocking my age, my fight, like none of it ever mattered.

He'd forgotten everything. The vows. The promises. The way he once told me, "Babe, no matter what happens, I'm on your side. Always. I trust you."

Yeah. Men's promises? Always breakable. And Maverick was just another classic example.

From downstairs, a voice floated up:

"Sir, it's time for lunch."

Maverick rubbed his temples, got up, and walked out—right as Lucinda emerged from the master bedroom.

"Maverick, Quincey's leg's still bad. Carry her down for lunch, would you?"

The house literally had an elevator. And a wheelchair. But sure, let's make Maverick the hero.

He never lifted a finger like that for me. Always quick to snap, criticize, find fault. I used to wonder—if being with me was such a burden, why didn't he just say no to Grandma Rosalee's plan? She adored him. She never would've forced it.

He had choices. He just didn't care enough to make the right one.

Why act like he loved me if he never did?

I really thought I'd finally mattered to him. Lived in that delusion, stupidly happy. Even Lucinda's shade didn't faze me back then.

But it didn't matter. Because at the end of the day, I was never enough to beat the girl he never got over.

The three of them rode the elevator down. Maverick carried Quincey like she was made of glass, then eased her into her chair.

"Wow, all my favorites," she said, eyes glowing at him. "Thanks for remembering."

Lucinda chimed in with that syrupy smile. "Well, you two used to be a thing. If he still remembers, it must mean he never really let you go."

Maverick cut her off, voice sharp. "Mom, leave the past where it belongs."

He then shot a look at the table, clearly unimpressed. "Who cooked today?"

Gerard, the house manager, stepped up. "The new chef. Something wrong, sir?"

Maverick frowned. "It's different. Never mind. You can go."

Throughout the meal, Lucinda and Quincey were all smiles, chatting like nothing had happened. Maverick? Barely touched his food, chewing like it was cardboard.

I hovered nearby, watching. Not gonna lie—there was a tiny flicker of satisfaction.

Back when he started working, his picky eating got worse. I'd bent over backwards—hired the city's top nutritionist, tested recipes nonstop. I was up before sunrise hitting the market, hunting down the freshest stuff you couldn't find at any fancy store. Eventually, I got him eating like a human again.

Lucinda clocked his barely touched plate and frowned. "Maverick, really? You can't eat? Stella knows you'll only eat her cooking, yet she's still off doing who knows what."

Quincey jumped in. "Maybe it's my fault. Stella's probably upset. Want me to call her and explain?"

Maverick's jaw tightened. "I'm not dependent on her. Let her do whatever she wants."

He shoved a few more bites in like he had something to prove—like choking down that food meant he didn't miss mine.

"I can cook for you," Quincey offered, all sugary sweet. "You used to love my soufflé omelet, remember?"

She caught his cold shoulder toward me and looked way too pleased. With a smug little nod, she had the maid wheel her into the kitchen. A few minutes later, boom—soufflé omelet, right in front of him.

I just watched. He ate. Bite after bite. And yeah—I laughed at myself. Real bitter kind of laugh.

So that was the truth. No wonder he begged for soufflé omelets after we got married. I actually thought he liked them. Joke's on me—he was just using my hands to relive whatever he had with Quincey.

And me? I was the idiot who believed every lie, walking straight into my own downfall with a smile.

Quincey, playing the part, turned to him. "We've got rehearsal today. Can you take me?"

He raised a brow. "Didn't you mess up your leg?"

"It's just a little swollen," she said, brushing it off. "I'll be fine. I've gotta watch over things. You know how lazy they get when I'm not around."

What finally pushed me to divorce him happened three months ago.

Quincey brought her troupe back to Elencia for a competition. The second Maverick found out, he suddenly had "company business" and ditched me to go play escort. If no one had sent me the photos, I might've actually believed the lie.

Maverick never turned Quincey down. Ever. One call, one text—he was there. No hesitation. No excuses.

Now? I just hoped my body would be found soon so I could go see my parents—the only people who ever really loved me.

Seriously, what did I do to deserve this? I'd already paid with my life. And even dead, I still wasn't free. My soul was stuck on a leash, tied to Maverick, only able to drift as far as he did.

I swallowed the sting in my chest and drifted after Maverick and Quincey to her troupe's studio.

The second Quincey—the star ballerina—walked in, every dancer stopped and greeted her.

"Quincey, is that your boyfriend? He's so hot."

"Duh. Why else would he be carrying her around?"

Quincey flashed that smug little smile, pretending to scold them. Told them to get back to practice like she wasn't eating up every word.

They just laughed, totally buying the 'shy and humble' act. Please.

Maverick stared at the stage, stone-faced. No denial. No reaction. Just enough silence to look like agreement.

I followed his gaze—and bam, flashback.

Back in school, he'd shown interest in Quincey, the dance academy girl. Even asked why I never tried ballet.

That was the first time my crush on him felt... threatened.

One dumb comment. That's all it took for me to sign up for ballet.

I was way too old to be starting ballet, and my teacher didn't sugarcoat it. Said it'd be brutal. She wasn't wrong.

I kept dancing 'til my feet were wrecked—swollen, raw. Didn't care.

Connor, my godbrother, would pick me up after class and lose it every time. Scolded me for pushing too hard, said I was ruining my body over a guy who didn't deserve it.

He was my mom's best friend's son. Always looked out for me—like a real brother. Always said Maverick wasn't worth the pain.

But I was stubborn. Classic me.

"Come on," he sighed once, "I'll buy you dinner. I'm heading out of Elencia next week, so this is it for a while."

He didn't agree with me, but he never disrespected my choice.

I was about to change when Maverick and Quincey walked into the studio.

She was wearing the same color leotard as me. Standing next to Maverick, they looked... right. Like they belonged together.

"So ugly."

One sentence. That was all it took.

I never forgot the look in Maverick's eyes—or how fast that word crushed me. In that second, I didn't feel like a dancer anymore. I felt like a knockoff. A bad copy.

The leotard stuck to my skin like something foul I couldn't scrub off.

After that day, I never went near ballet again.

Years later, after we got married, Maverick asked why I gave up dancing. Even wanted me to wear that leotard again.

He forgot. Forgot what he said that day. Instead, he called me flaky—said I never stuck with anything.

Every memory just screamed the truth—he never loved me.

"Stella still hasn't called?"

Quincey's voice yanked me back. Maverick was staring at his phone, jaw tight.

"It's work," he muttered, jamming it into his pocket. "Stella? Who cares. If she doesn't want to come back, she can stay gone forever."

He always gave Quincey the best parts of him. Me? I got the scraps.

Didn't he realize—even someone who loves that hard breaks eventually?

Well, congrats, Maverick. You got your wish.

I'm not coming back.

***

Three days flew by. Maverick buried himself in work and barely showed up at home.

I figured he couldn't wait to cozy up with Quincey in our bed.

But nope. Right after we got back from the ballet, he had her moved to the guest room and ordered the master sheets changed. Put everything back like I'd never died.

I didn't get him. Maybe I never did. Even Quincey broke down over the sudden switch.

Lucinda's face soured. "Still no word from Stella?"

Maverick hummed in response. He stared at his phone, screen black, completely zoned out.

"This is absurd," Lucinda snapped, slamming the table. "She's even skipping your grandmother's memorial now?

"That ungrateful brat. After everything your grandmother did for her—taking her in when her parents died, honoring that silly childhood engagement. And you, my poor boy, had to give up the girl you actually loved."

"Please don't be mad, Mrs. Falkner. It's all my fault," Quincey said, all sad eyes and trembling voice. "If I hadn't come back and needed Maverick's help, Stella wouldn't have snapped and hired someone to kidnap me. My leg wouldn't be injured.

"I swear, if I'd known, I never would've shown up."

She glanced at Maverick with a tearful look, all delicate and broken—just tragic enough to sway anyone.

"I've cut off Stella's cards," Maverick said coldly, grabbing his phone and heading upstairs. "She's been spoiled her whole life. She won't last. She'll come crawling back. And when she does, she's apologizing to you."

He holed up in the study, unlocked his phone, and dialed.

"The number you have dialed is powered off."

The second that robotic voice kicked in, he slammed the phone into the couch. His eyes burned.

"Stella Sorra."

I flinched. Then remembered—he couldn't see me.

"If you don't show up soon, don't expect me to come looking."

He'd believe anyone but me. Never once thought maybe I was in danger.

Just like Lucinda, he decided I was ungrateful. Hopeless. The kind of person who wouldn't even show up for Grandma Rosalee's memorial.

But how was I supposed to come back?

If anyone in that family ever gave a damn about me, it was her. Grandma Rosalee was terrified I'd drown in grief after my parents died. She tried everything to lift me up. Never made me feel like a burden. Never once cruel.

And now? I couldn't even stand by her grave.

Yeah, I let her down.

All I want now is to finally leave this world. When I see her again, I'll say sorry the right way.

A ringtone sliced through the silence.

Maverick answered.

Connor's voice came in hot—"Where's Stelly? Her phone's been off for three days!"

Hearing him nearly broke me. At least someone still gave a damn whether I was alive. I started crying and couldn't stop.

"Stelly?" Maverick scoffed, face twisted. "Cute. Real close, huh? Where she went isn't your problem. Or what—did she drag you in again to play the loyal sidekick in another one of her little acts?

"Stella's my wife. I don't care how you two chat behind my back, but she needs to quit wrecking my family's name. Or I won't go easy on her."

I floated in circles, shaking with fury. This guy—this clown—who spent every second wrapped around Quincey like she was gold, had the nerve to accuse me of cheating? Unbelievable.

Connor snapped, "What the hell are you talking about? Stelly and I would never pull the kind of crap you're accusing us of.

"I saw something about a kidnapping in your area. Is it true, like people online are saying? That you picked Quincey and just left Stelly behind?"

Maverick's jaw tightened. Voice sharp. "I already had that garbage scrubbed. Stella faked the whole thing and got Quincey hurt in the process.

"Whatever scam you two are running, don't let me catch you. 'Cause if I do, I'll throw her in prison myself."

He slammed the call shut, tossed his phone, and slumped onto the couch, face ghost-white.

Yeah. Headaches again. I used to care. I used to sit there for hours, rubbing his temples, hoping he'd feel even a little better.

And what did I get for all that?

Accusations. He actually convinced himself I cheated.

My biggest mistake? Loving him.

You wanna know what real pain is? It's not death. It's realizing your heart doesn't even break anymore—it just stops.

I looked at him one last time. Empty. No more fire, no more ache. Just done.

From the sound of Connor's voice, he was heading back to Elencia. I held onto that tiny, fragile thread of hope. That maybe, just maybe, he'd find me. And finally take me away.

***

Next morning, Maverick strolled into the dining room, Quincey curled up in his arms.

Lucinda flipped on the TV, dead set on her daily dose of news. The three of them sat there, picture-perfect. Real Hallmark moment.

I watched from the sidelines, stone-faced. The whole thing made my stomach turn.

"Breaking news: a decomposed body was found in a trash pile near the old construction site by the reservoir. Police are working to identify the victim. Please stay tuned for updates."

Crash.

Glass exploded across the floor.

Lucinda barely blinked. "They really play this kind of thing first thing in the morning?" She shut off the TV and waved a maid over to clean up.

"Maverick, maybe you should send someone to look for Stella. I'm worried she—"

"Not her!" Maverick snapped, cutting Quincey off mid-panic. Dude went ghost-pale, gripping the chair like it was the only thing holding him upright. Everyone stared.

He sucked in a breath, tried to play it cool. "She knows she messed up, so she wouldn't dare come back. Probably drowning in guilt somewhere. No way that body's hers—she loves her life too much."

Lucinda jumped in. "Exactly. She's probably hiding out, scared Maverick's gonna divorce her.

"Quincey, you're too sweet. She got you hurt, and we're still feeling awful about that. You're the only one kind enough to care if she's even alive."

A ringtone broke the moment. Maverick snatched up his phone.

"I'm heading over to confirm the body." Connor's voice came through. "You coming or not?"

"Not going," he muttered.

"Fine. Don't regret it," Connor snapped, then hung up.

A strange flicker of anticipation stirred in me. That body? Pretty sure it was mine. I just wanted Connor to confirm it and get me cremated already.

"Maverick, where are you going?" Lucinda yelled.

He ignored her, grabbed a jacket, and bolted.

I had to tag along, still clueless until the car pulled up.

The scene? Total crime drama cliché—abandoned construction site, police tape everywhere, forensic techs snapping pics.

"She might be my sister. Please, just let me in."

Connor.

He was practically begging the cops. The second I saw him, the tears came fast.

"I need to know if the body has a red birthmark on her left waist."

"It does. Come with me."

The officer didn't waste a second, leading them in.

The second they uncovered me, Maverick's face went ghost-pale. He staggered, then dropped.

"No. No way. How could you just die like that? Stella—wake up. Please, wake up!"