A Silence Born of Fireworks

"But don't worry, I'll be a good husband."

After the showdown with Blake, I was exhausted.

I wheeled myself toward the downstairs garden, desperate for a breath of fresh air.

On a bench in the hallway sat a familiar insulated container.

Identical to the one Blake had brought.

I wheeled myself over.

The door to the adjacent room was ajar.

A sultry voice, thick with a post-coital haze, drifted out.

“After all this time, you still remember clam chowder is my favorite.”

“That earthquake was terrifying, but getting to drink soup you made yourself? Totally worth it.”

I froze.

As if pulled by some invisible force, I edged closer to the door.

I recognized that familiar back. And then I heard his voice—the same one that had just been in my room, making all those solemn promises.

“You love fireworks, you love clam chowder… I remember everything about you.”

"So, now that you're back, don't ever leave me again."

In that instant, my heart didn't just break; it shattered into dust.

An icy chill spread from my chest through my limbs.

So, while I was buried under rubble, my life hanging by a thread, he was setting off fireworks for her.

He hadn't visited the hospital because she was here too.

He hadn’t forgotten my allergy; he’d simply been busy making her favorite clam chowder.

And I was just an afterthought, a quick stop on his way from taking care of his true love.

I decided to check myself out of the hospital, against the doctor's advice to take my hearing loss seriously.

I thanked him, then drafted an agreement to terminate our engagement.

Returning to our home in Malibu, I prepared to pack my things and leave.

Blake’s call came almost immediately. “Isadora, why did you check out of the hospital?”

I was pulling on my shoes, my voice pure ice as I answered. “Blake, we’re done.”

Silence, then a disbelieving roar. “Isadora, what the hell is that supposed to mean? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

I let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not joking. Come home and sign the papers.”

“You’re at the house?” His voice sharpened with an urgency that sent a chill of foreboding down my spine.

The next second, a slender figure emerged from our bedroom.

She had just woken up, her eyes drowsy.

She smelled of him. Tobacco, cologne, and… the musky scent of lovemaking.

“Blake, you’re back,” she cooed, her voice sickeningly sweet, not yet noticing who stood in the doorway.

I recognized her.

Dahlia Greystone.

To my own surprise, I was utterly calm.

“Get over here and deal with her,” I said into the phone.

I hung up, my hand shaking violently.

“Isadora Hawthorne?” The woman leaned against the doorframe, her eyes raking over me with contempt.

She tugged at the collar of my silk pajamas.

Her neck was a roadmap of angry red hickeys, trailing down to her collarbone.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be home,” she purred. “Sleeping in your bed, wearing your pajamas… I hope you don’t mind.”

“These sheets are incredible,” she added with a smirk. “Feels amazing when he’s on top of me, messing them up.”

My mind was a complete blank.

An invisible hand squeezed my heart tightly.

Nausea surged up my throat.

They had been writhing in the bed we'd shared for years.

And she was wearing my pajamas, flaunting the marks he'd left on her.

Is the Carrington heir really too cheap to buy his mistress her own villa?

Or were they using me as a prop in their filthy game?

I fought back the urge to vomit and asked, "Did you know we were engaged?"

She arched a perfect eyebrow. “And did you know that the day I flew back was the day you two got engaged?”