Shattered Vows: Ruining My Billionaire Ex-Husband

Fiona stepped over the threshold into the master bedroom. The heavy, suffocating stench of Bulgarian rose perfume coated her tongue. It was thick and artificial, clinging to every surface of the room. Fiona's throat closed up, her body physically rejecting the air in the space she had once called her sanctuary. She looked around the massive room. The cool, minimalist tones she had carefully selected years ago had been completely eradicated. The walls were now covered in a gaudy, metallic pink wallpaper. Heavy gold accents gleamed under the chandelier. The aggressive visual clash made Fiona's head throb with a sudden, sharp ache. She walked slowly toward the massive marble vanity. The surface was entirely covered in expensive glass skincare bottles, scattered makeup brushes, and velvet jewelry boxes. There was not a single trace of Fiona left. The reality of her replacement settled heavily in her chest, a cold, hard stone pressing against her lungs. Fiona turned and marched toward the walk-in closet. She grabbed the brass handle of the sliding door and yanked it open with brutal force. The racks, once filled with her meticulously tailored suits and haute couture gowns, were completely empty of her belongings. In their place hung rows of brightly colored, sequined dresses and fur coats. The sight made her vision blur with hot, angry tears. A floorboard creaked in the hallway. A young maid rushed up to the open bedroom door, stopping abruptly when she saw Fiona. The girl's eyes darted nervously to the floor, her hands twisting her apron into knots. "Ma'am," she stammered out, a quiet, terrified greeting. Fiona snapped her head toward the door. Her eyes were completely devoid of warmth. "Where are my things?" she demanded. The sheer authority in Fiona's voice made the young girl flinch backward. The maid pointed a trembling finger down the long, shadowed hallway toward the back of the house. "Mr. Ellison ordered everything to be packed up and thrown into the storage room," she whispered. The words hit Fiona's chest like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her. Fiona didn't scream. She didn't cry. She simply turned her back on the trembling maid and walked down the hallway. Her boots hit the floorboards with a steady, rhythmic thud. With every step she took away from the master bedroom, the lingering warmth she held for her past life evaporated into the cold air. She reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of the narrow wooden door of the storage room. She grabbed the rusted brass knob and twisted it hard. The hinges let out a high-pitched, agonizing shriek as she pushed the door open. A thick cloud of stale air, heavy with the smell of mold and undisturbed dust, rushed into her face. Fiona reached up and yanked the frayed string hanging from the ceiling. The single, bare bulb flickered violently before finally casting a sickly yellow glow over the room. The space was crammed floor to ceiling with black plastic garbage bags and crushed cardboard boxes. She walked over to the nearest pile and dropped to her knees. She grabbed the thick plastic of a garbage bag, the cheap material scraping roughly against her cold fingers. She dug her nails in and ripped the bag open, the plastic tearing with a loud, aggressive sound. A pile of her old, comfortable sweaters spilled out onto the dirty floor, tangled with several thick, bound movie scripts. Fiona picked up one of the scripts. The edges of the paper were curled and spotted with dark green mold. A sharp pang of grief hit her chest. Her career, her passion, left to rot in the dark. She tossed the ruined script aside and dragged a heavy cardboard box toward her. The movement kicked up a cloud of dust that coated the back of her throat, sending her into a fit of harsh, dry coughing. As she pushed the flaps open, a glint of dull metal caught the yellow light. It was her Best Actress trophy. Fiona reached into the box. The heavy golden statue had been thrown carelessly at the bottom, buried under a pile of broken picture frames. The smooth surface of the trophy was marred by deep, ugly scratches. It was a physical manifestation of how completely Cecil had discarded her worth. She reached past the trophy and grabbed a wooden picture frame. The glass was completely shattered. As her fingers closed around the wood, a jagged shard of glass sliced deep into the pad of her index finger. A bright bead of blood instantly welled up, dripping down and splashing onto the dusty photograph inside. Fiona stared at the picture. It was a candid shot from their wedding day. They were laughing, their foreheads pressed together. The blood smeared across Cecil's smiling face. The contrast between the joyful memory and the agonizing reality made Fiona's stomach cramp with nausea. Her eyes went completely dead. She didn't bother wiping the blood from her hand. She pinched the corner of the photograph and yanked it out of the frame. The broken glass scraped against her skin, slicing another shallow cut into her thumb. She gripped the heavy cardstock in both hands and ripped the photograph straight down the middle. She tore it again, and again, until the picture was nothing more than a handful of jagged confetti. She opened her hands and let the pieces flutter to the dusty floorboards. As the paper hit the ground, a massive, suffocating weight lifted off her chest. Her lungs expanded, pulling in a full, deep breath for the first time in hours. Fiona stood up and scanned the room. She spotted a battered, hard-shell suitcase shoved in the corner. She dragged it out, her muscles straining against the weight. She grabbed the zipper and yanked it. The metal teeth caught and ground together, fighting her, but she forced it open with a violent tug. She knelt back down and began sorting through the bags. She bypassed the velvet boxes containing the diamond necklaces and heavy gold bracelets Cecil had bought her, kicking them away with the toe of her boot. She only grabbed her faded jeans, plain t-shirts, and her passport. She was leaving with exactly what she came with. She reached back into the cardboard box and wrapped her bleeding fingers around the base of the Best Actress trophy. The metal was freezing cold against her skin. The heavy weight of it anchored her. It was the only thing in this house she had earned with her own blood and sweat. She grabbed a soft wool scarf from the pile and carefully wrapped it around the scratched metal statue. Her movements were slow, gentle, and fiercely protective. She placed the bundled trophy right in the center of her suitcase, burying it under her clothes. Suddenly, the floorboards in the hallway groaned under a heavy weight. The aggressive, unmistakable sound of hard leather dress shoes striking the wood echoed down the corridor. The footsteps were fast and furious, carrying a wave of dark, violent energy straight toward her. Fiona grabbed the lid of the suitcase and slammed it shut. She gripped the zipper and pulled it around the track, the metal screaming in the quiet room. She slowly pushed herself up from the floor and turned to face the open doorway. Cecil's massive frame suddenly filled the doorframe. His broad shoulders completely blocked the dim light spilling in from the hallway, plunging the small storage room into deep shadow. His chest heaved, his tie loosened, his face twisted into an ugly mask of rage. He looked down at the torn garbage bags, the shattered glass, and finally, the packed suitcase resting against Fiona's leg. The muscles in his jaw flexed violently. "What the hell kind of stunt are you trying to pull?" he demanded, letting out a harsh breath. Fiona wiped her bloody fingers on the side of her jeans. She lifted her chin and stared directly into his furious eyes. Her heartbeat was steady. Her breathing was calm. The absolute lack of fear in her gaze was a weapon all its own. "Is throwing my life into the garbage your idea of honoring your wedding vows?" she asked, her voice dripping with venom, pointing a trembling finger at the piles of trash bags. The words hit him hard, causing his chest to stutter in its rhythmic heaving. Cecil's eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. He scowled, his upper lip curling in distaste. He crossed his arms over his chest. "The housekeeping staff took it upon themselves to clear the room," he muttered. The blatant, cowardly lie made Fiona's blood boil. She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. She reached down and wrapped her hand tightly around the cold plastic handle of her suitcase. The wheels clattered loudly against the wood floor as she pulled it upright. She squared her shoulders, ready to rip her way out of this house.