Mr. Carter waited until I stepped safely into my cabin before nodding silently and walking away, the soft thud of his shoes fading with each step. I stood behind the door, fingers trembling as I turned the lock. A hollow click echoed in the room, like a final punctuation mark to the night's emotional chaos.
I slid down the door and sat on the floor, my legs tucked to my chest. My head leaned back, and my eyes traced the ceiling, which I couldn't see through the tears blurring my vision. I was exhausted but not just tired. I was hurting. I was still married to Ethan; still legally bound to a man who had shattered me and was now trying to gather the pieces just because he realized someone else saw my worth.
What would happen tomorrow after the retreat was over? Would we go back to the same house again, pretending like nothing had happened? Pretend like I didn't just find him drunk outside my door after publicly rejecting the woman he chose over me?
No. I hadn't planned this far ahead, and that realization scared me.
My thoughts were spiraling when a sudden knock at the door jolted me. My heart leaped to my throat. It was close to midnight. Who could it be now? I froze.
Tiptoeing to the door, I leaned forward and peeked through the small peephole. My breath caught.
Jessica.
She stood there with puffy red eyes and her arms crossed tightly around her body. She looked like a ghost shaking from the cold and the kind of heartbreak that makes you sick. Had she been out there all this time? In the dark?
Was she waiting for me? Did she want to fight me? Was this about to turn into some tragic late-night showdown?
I cracked the door open just a little, my voice calm and detached. "What do you want?"
Her voice trembled, and for a split second, I saw the scared girl behind the plastic smiles and fake lashes. "I just want to talk. Nothing more. Please."
I hesitated. The rational part of me screamed to slam the door, but curiosity won. I opened the door fully and let her in. She stepped inside without a word, wiping her cheeks roughly as if that would erase the damage.
I motioned toward the couch and grabbed the bottle of champagne I hadn't touched since arriving. I poured her a glass and handed it to her. She took it but didn't sip.
Instead, she broke down.
Her sobs were loud and sudden, catching me off guard. I stared at her for a moment, wondering how much of this was real and how much was performance. But I let her cry.
Then she began to speak.
"I just spoke with Ethan. He told me everything." Her voice cracked. "That you've been separated. That you're the one refusing to give the divorce."
I didn't react yet.
She went on, her volume rising with every sentence. "He said you don't give him peace. That he's tired. That he's tried with you."
I tilted my head, still silent.
"If he wanted you, he wouldn't be with me. Do you think a man stays where he's miserable? All those nights he spent with me, do you think he was thinking about you?"
There it was. The real reason she came here. Not to talk. Not to cry. But to win.
I still didn't speak. I wanted to slap her so bad but not today. The idea made me smile a little.
She looked at me with disgust. "You don't even fight for him. What kind of wife just lets her husband drift away like that? No wonder he said he felt alone."
I finally raised my eyes and met hers. My voice was quiet but firm. "Are you done?"
She blinked.
"If that's all, please leave my cabin."
The finality in my tone made her flinch. She stood up slowly, glass still full, and scanned me with disdain. Her eyes screamed "pathetic," as if she was trying to convince herself she had won.
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard that the frame shook. I clenched my fists, the desire to run after her and slap that smug look off her face overwhelming me.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I refused to stoop to her level.
Instead, I took a deep breath, grabbed my pillow, and screamed into it with every ounce of fury and frustration inside me.
And more powerful treating me like I mattered.
He never spoke about divorce. Not once. He kept me in limbo while tasting the sweetness of new skin and feeding this naive Barbie lies like candy.
He was a manipulator. A master of shifting blame. Of making others believe they caused the fire while he stood there with the match.
But now? Now he'd lit a fire in me. And I was no longer scared of burning everything down.
Let's see who's the baddest in this game, Ethan.