One Hundred Reasons To Walk Away

Elise Lynn POV:

The scent of stale coffee and my own desperation clung to me as I sat in the polished, sterile office of Ms. Davies, the family lawyer. The heavy mahogany table felt cold beneath my fingertips.

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, considering the earthquake inside me.

Ms. Davies, a woman whose calm demeanor belied a steel core, simply nodded. "Ashton. I understand. What are your terms?"

My terms. The words felt foreign. For three years, my terms had been Ashton's terms. Now, they were mine. "I want nothing from him. Just out."

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in her carefully neutral expression. "Are you sure, Elise? You're entitled to a substantial settlement."

"I want to be free," I repeated, the taste of the word like clean air after years of suffocating dust. "Free from him, free from his family, free from... everything connected to him."

We spent an hour going through the paperwork. Each signature felt like shedding a layer of skin, painful but necessary. When I walked out of her office, the city air hit me with a clarity I hadn't felt in years. The weight on my shoulders, the invisible chain I' d dragged behind me, felt lighter. Not gone, but lighter.

My car, a modest sedan Ashton had once called "quaint," felt like a chariot of freedom. I found myself driving on autopilot, a strange magnetic pull guiding me. I ended up at the hospital.

It was an old habit, one I couldn' t quite shake yet. When he was sick, when he was stressed, I would bring him his favorite obscure herbal tea and a specific type of artisanal bread from a bakery three towns over. It was a ritual, a silent plea for acknowledgement, for care.

I saw his car in the parking lot, gleaming under the hospital lights. I parked a little distance away, the habit of invisibility already ingrained. I walked towards his room, my steps slow, almost reluctant. As I approached, I heard voices from within. Not just Ashton's, but another, high-pitched and whiny. Bailey.

I paused at the slightly ajar door, the antiseptic scent of the hospital mingling with the cloying sweetness of the flowers inside.

Bailey was perched on the edge of Ashton's bed, looking utterly miserable. Her perfectly coiffed hair was slightly mussed, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She was holding a half-eaten sandwich with delicate distaste.

"It's just… I can't believe this happened," she wailed, her voice thick with self-pity. "My whole project, Ashton. Gone. And I almost went with it."

Ashton, pale but otherwise unharmed, patted her hand with a tenderness he hadn' t shown me in months. "It's okay, B. We'll fix it. Your career is too important."

"But my reputation!" she cried, pulling away from him. "What if people think I'm weak? What if they think I can't handle the pressure?"

Ashton' s gaze, usually so sharp and distant, softened with an almost desperate intensity. "No one will think that. I promise you, Bailey. I'd sacrifice everything I have for your success. My entire fortune, if it meant saving your project. You know that, right?"

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My entire fortune. Your success.

I pressed my hand against the cold, sterile wall, hoping to steady myself. This wasn't new. I had heard him say things like this before, in hushed tones, to investors, to rivals, always about her. But hearing it now, after signing those divorce papers, it twisted the knife in a new, excruciating way.

Bailey, sensing a shift in his mood, leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Ashton, it's always been you and me. That's why we're so good together. The way we challenge each other, the way we push each other to greatness."

Ashton smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that rarely reached his eyes when he looked at me. "Always, B. Always."

My vision blurred, the hospital corridor tilting precariously. The artisanal bread in the bag I was holding slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the linoleum floor with a soft thud. The sound was surprisingly loud in the hushed corridor.

Ashton and Bailey looked up, startled. Their faces, caught in the intimacy of their shared moment, froze.

Bailey, ever the actress, plastered a concerned look on her face. "Elise! Oh, my god, what are you doing here?"

Ashton, on the other hand, just looked annoyed. "Elise. What happened?"

He didn' t ask if I was okay. He asked what happened. As if I had somehow disrupted their little tableau.

My heart, which I thought had already turned to stone, fractured a little more. I looked at the bread, scattered on the floor, a symbol of all my wasted efforts, all my foolish hope.

"Nothing," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Just dropping off some... leftovers."

I turned, leaving the forgotten bread and the discarded tea on the floor. I walked away without looking back, the sound of Bailey' s overly dramatic "Oh, Ashton, are you alright?" echoing in my ears.

I reached the hospital entrance, my legs unsteady. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from my old friend, Chloe, a Nashville-based producer.

"Elise, I know it's been years. But I heard your demo tape again. You're still a genius. Call me. I have an idea. A big one."

I stared at the message, a tiny spark igniting in the vast emptiness inside me. A song. A new song. Not a "Song of a Hundred Reasons." A song of a hundred opportunities.

I walked out into the crisp night air, newfound resolve hardening my spine. The old me, the one who brought artisanal bread and hoped for a glance, was dead.

The phoenix was ready to rise.