The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

The suitcase was old. One of the wheels had a tendency to stick, dragging across the hardwood floor with a scratching sound that grated on Cristina's nerves. She pulled it from the back of the closet, blowing off a layer of dust.

She didn't pack the gowns. She didn't pack the jewelry Jackson had bought her for public appearances. She took jeans, t-shirts, and the thick wool sweaters she wore when she was alone.

In the corner of the walk-in closet, hidden behind a row of winter coats, sat a black sketchbook. Its cover was worn, the edges fraying.

Cristina reached for it. Her fingers brushed the leather. This book contained the last five years of her soul. Every design that had saved Floyd Enterprises from bankruptcy started on these pages.

She hesitated. Leaving it felt like leaving a limb behind. But taking it felt like stealing from a life she no longer owned. She placed it at the bottom of the suitcase, buried beneath denim.

The doorbell rang. It wasn't the melodic chime of a guest, but the sharp, insistent buzz of service.

Cristina walked to the foyer. She opened the door to find Jackson's personal assistant, a young woman named Sarah who always looked at Cristina with a mixture of pity and disdain.

"Mr. Floyd sent this," Sarah said. She didn't say hello. She thrust a clipboard forward.

Cristina looked at the document. Non-Disclosure Agreement.

"He wants to ensure privacy regarding the family matters," Sarah said, popping her gum. "Standard procedure for... ex-partners."

Cristina laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "He thinks I want to talk about this? He thinks I'm proud of being discarded?"

Sarah took a step back, surprised by the edge in Cristina's voice. "Just sign it, Mrs... Ms. Powell. Or he cuts off the severance check."

"There is no severance check," Cristina said. "I signed the prenup. I get nothing."

"Oh," Sarah said. Her smirk returned. "Well, sign it anyway. Or he'll sue you for emotional distress caused to Ms. Powell."

Cristina grabbed the clipboard. She scanned the bold clauses: Defamation, Trade Secrets, Financial Privacy. Her eyes narrowed. She knew the law better than Jackson gave her credit for. An NDA could silence a wife, but it couldn't cover up criminal acts. It couldn't protect against felonies. She uncapped the pen. Let him think he's safe, she thought. This piece of paper won't save him from the truth. She signed it with a flourish, the pen tearing through the paper slightly. She shoved it back at Sarah.

"Get out."

Sarah turned on her heel and practically ran to the elevator.

Cristina closed the door and leaned against it. Her phone pinged with an email notification. She checked it. It was from Bella Vance, a contact in Paris.

The position at the institute is yours if you want it. We start next month.

Cristina typed a reply. I'll be there.

Then, another notification. A text from the bank. Joint Account ending in 4590: Frozen. Access Denied.

He was cutting off her oxygen. He wanted her penniless and stranded.

Cristina walked back to the bedroom. She went to the nightstand and pulled out the bottom drawer. She felt around underneath it until her fingers found a small piece of tape. She peeled it back.

A black debit card fell into her palm.

It was the account Jackson didn't know about. The account where "Sunny"-the anonymous designer-deposited her freelance royalties from international clients who didn't care about the Floyd name.

She wasn't destitute. She was rich. But Jackson couldn't know that yet.

She called Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, to arrange for boxes, then walked into the living room. A massive portrait of her and Jackson hung over the fireplace. It was from their wedding day. He looked bored. She looked hopeful.

Cristina went to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of kitchen shears.

She walked up to the painting. Without hesitating, she jammed the point of the scissors into the canvas, right between their faces.

The sound of ripping fabric was satisfying. She sliced down, then across. She cut her own face out of the frame, leaving Jackson standing alone against a jagged white background.

She crumpled the piece of canvas with her face on it and threw it into the trash can.

Outside, the sky opened up. Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of gray and yellow. It was a cold, miserable night.

She wrapped her trench coat tighter around herself. The apartment felt like a tomb now. Empty. Echoing.

The front door lock tumbled.

Cristina froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. He wasn't supposed to be back until morning.

Jackson pushed the door open. He was soaking wet, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked wild, unlike his usual composed self. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the slashed painting, then on the suitcase by the door.

"What the hell did you do?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.