Eight Years Lost, Now Truly Free

I gave my boyfriend, Blake, eight years of my life. I was his loyal paralegal and devoted partner, sacrificing a promotion and even a child for the future he promised us.

Then I overheard the truth from outside his office. He called me "damaged goods," laughing with the woman he gave my job to.

His cruelty escalated. He publicly humiliated me, then banished me to the firm's basement archives. When intruders attacked me there, I called him, bleeding and begging for help.

"You're being dramatic," he said, and hung up.

He left me to die. The trauma caused me to miscarry the baby I never knew I was carrying.

Lying in a hospital bed, I saw his social media post: a smiling selfie with her, captioned #Blessed.

That was the moment I decided to disappear. He thought he had broken me. He was wrong. He had just set me free.

Chapter 1

Alena POV:

The words hit me like a physical blow, stripping away eight years of my life, leaving me hollowed out and gasping for air. "She's damaged goods, a free paralegal, nothing more than a convenient accessory." Blake's voice, usually so smooth and calming, was laced with a chilling disdain I'd never heard directed at me. Not at me, at least not directly. I stood frozen outside his office, the door ajar just enough for his cruel confession to spill out, twisting my world into something unrecognizable.

My junior partnership. Vanished.

Just this morning, my mother had called. "Alena, darling, your father and I are so proud. A junior partner at Molina & Associates. We always knew you'd make it." Her words, meant to be a comfort, now felt like a lead weight pressing down on my chest. I had rehearsed telling her about my "lost cause of a promotion" for weeks. Her disappointment, mixed with her usual "why don't you just settle down" refrain, was a familiar sting. But this? This was worse.

I'd accepted it, or so I thought. Blake had sat me down, his hand warm over mine, his eyes full of what I now knew was practiced sympathy. "Alena, sweetheart, the firm needs a fresh face. Someone with key connections. Brittany, her father... it's a huge deal for us." He' d said it so gently, almost apologetically. And I, fool that I was, had nodded, understanding. Believing.

But the words I heard now, cutting through the muffled office sounds, were a raw, festering wound. "And the abortion, Blake? Did she really go through with that just for you?" Brittany Ferguson's voice, sweet and venomous, dripped with amusement. I pictured her, perched on Blake' s desk, her glossy dark hair falling over her shoulder, her perfectly manicured hand playing with his pen.

"Of course," Blake chuckled, a sound that curdled my blood. "Said it would 'derail my ambitions.' Honestly, sometimes I think she believed we had a future." He paused, and I could almost feel his smirk. "Eight years, Brittany. Eight years of free labor, loyalty, and unquestioning devotion. She practically ran my life, my cases. A well-oiled machine, really."

My breath hitched. Free labor. Unquestioning devotion. That was me. That was my eight years. My entire twenties. Erased.

"And 'damaged goods'?" Brittany purred, a cruel echo of his earlier remark. "Because of one little medical procedure? Such a drama queen."

The floor beneath me swayed. Damaged goods. They were talking about my abortion. The one I' d had, not because I didn't want a child, but because Blake had convinced me it was "not the right time," "too early in my career," "would complicate things." He' d woven a narrative of shared ambition, of a future he was building for us.

My hand instinctively went to my stomach, a phantom ache blooming there. It wasn't just my career, it wasn't just the betrayal. It was everything. Every sacrifice, every silent tear, every dream I'd built around him. They were all dissolving into a bitter, toxic cloud.

I stumbled back, my heel catching on the plush carpet. The sound was barely audible, but I knew. They knew I was there. I heard a sudden silence, then Brittany' s gasp. I didn' t wait. I couldn' t. My legs moved on their own, carrying me away from the voices, away from the laughter that was now echoing in my head.

I found myself in the ladies' room, staring at my reflection. My face was pale, my eyes wide and bloodshot. My hands trembled as I reached into my purse, pulling out the small, velvet box. Inside lay the delicate silver necklace Blake had given me on our fifth anniversary. "A promise," he'd called it. "A promise of forever."

With a choked sob, I tore it from its box, the fragile chain digging into my palm. It wasn't a promise. It was a lie. A beautiful, glittering lie. I slammed it into the porcelain sink, the silver twisting and bending under the force, mimicking the contortion of my heart. I watched it, a broken, meaningless trinket, until my vision blurred with tears.

This was it. Not just the end of a promotion, but the end of everything. Eight years, shattered. And I was done. Done with the lies, done with the pain, done with being his "free paralegal."

I grabbed my worn leather briefcase, the one that had accompanied me through countless late nights and early mornings. My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat of newfound rebellion. I wasn't just walking away from the firm. I was walking away from the person I'd become for Blake.

My office. It felt foreign now, stripped of the life I' d poured into it. I looked at the framed photo on my desk: Blake and me, smiling, arm in arm, at the firm' s annual gala. He looked so proud. I looked so happy. A cruel joke.

I picked up the photo, turned it over, and scribbled a single word on the back: "Liar." Then I tossed it into the wastebasket. It clattered against the other trash, an insignificant sound.

The door creaked open. Brittany stood there, her smile tight, a hint of triumph in her eyes. She wore a bright pink scarf, the same shade Blake had once said looked beautiful on me. "Alena," she chirped, "Blake wants you to finalize the draft for the tech deal. You know, the one with my dad."

My stomach clenched. "The one I secured," I thought, but the words died before they reached my lips. I just looked at her, really looked at her, and saw not a rival, but a hollow reflection of Blake's ambition.

"And," she continued, her voice gaining an edge, "he said to remind you about the new associate orientation. You're in charge of the welcome packet assembly." She gestured vaguely to a stack of brightly colored folders on my desk. "It's all yours now, Alena. I'm too busy with actual legal work these days."

She winked, a gesture that was meant to be playful but felt like a knife twisting in the wound. She picked up a pristine white coffee mug from my desk, emblazoned with the firm's logo. It was a gift from Blake to me, last Christmas. "Oh, and thanks for the mug. It's really cute." She took a long, exaggerated sip, her eyes never leaving mine.

Blake's mug. My desk. Her triumphant smirk.

Something inside me snapped. The pain, the humiliation, the sheer audacity of it all... it solidified into a cold, hard resolve. I looked at the coffee mug in her hand, then at the stack of trivial tasks she'd just dumped on me. This wasn't just about a promotion anymore. This was about reclaiming every last piece of myself.

"Brittany," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "I need you to do me a favor."

Her eyebrows arched, surprised. "Oh? And what's that, Alena? Need help packing your... welcome packets?" She laughed, a short, sharp sound.

"No," I replied, my gaze unwavering. "I need you to tell Blake that he can assemble his own damn welcome packets. And pour his own damn coffee."

Her smile faltered. The color drained from her face. I knew the shock was genuine. She'd expected me to cower. To crumble. But the Alena she knew was gone.

I walked past her, my head held high. My briefcase felt lighter than it had in years. I didn't care about the tech deal, the welcome packets, or the firm. Not anymore. I just had one last thing to do.

My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Blake. A text message. "Alena, come to my office. We need to talk. NOW." The imperious tone, the capital letters. It was the same old Blake, pulling the strings. But not anymore.

I opened the message, my thumb hovering over the reply button. My heart didn't clench. It didn't ache. It felt hollow, empty. It felt free.

I typed a single word. "No." I pressed send.

Then, with a deep, cleansing breath, I deleted his number. Permanently.

The firm's lobby was bustling, a stark contrast to the graveyard silence of my office. I walked towards the elevator, my steps firm and purposeful. I was leaving. For good. But not without a final, silent farewell to the woman I used to be.

I stopped at a public waste receptacle, one of those sleek, stainless steel bins near the entrance. I reached into my coat pocket. My hand closed around the twisted silver necklace, the "promise" Blake had given me. I looked at it one last time, a cold, clinical assessment. No emotion. Just a broken piece of metal.

With a flick of my wrist, I dropped it. It landed with a faint metallic clink, swallowed by the trash. The sound was swallowed by the city' s roar.

I thought of the last time I' d felt truly free, truly myself. It was before Blake. Before the firm. Before the endless pursuit of a life that was never truly mine. My mind drifted to that sterile, cold clinic room, the hushed voices, the overwhelming sense of loss. That had been for Blake. Every painful, quiet tear. Every sleepless night. All for him. He'd called me "damaged goods." And for a long time, I'd believed it.

But standing here, the city wind whipping through my hair, a strange calm settled over me. He hadn't damaged me. He'd revealed my true strength. The strength to walk away.

My phone vibrated again, an unknown number. I ignored it. It didn't matter. Nothing from that life mattered anymore. I had a life to reclaim, starting now.

The elevator doors opened, a metallic sigh. I stepped inside, pressing the ground floor button. The doors hissed shut, sealing away the past, opening to an unknown future. I had no plan, no destination. Only a burning desire to disappear.

My fingers traced the faint scar on my arm, a relic from a childhood fall. A physical reminder that even broken things can heal, leaving behind a stronger, more resilient mark. Blake thought he had broken me. He was wrong. He had only set me free.

I wouldn't just disappear. I would rebuild. I would rise. And he would never see it coming.

This city, this firm, this life... it was all tainted. And I was done being stained. I was going home. No, I was going to a home I hadn't seen in years, a place where the air tasted different, where the sun shone brighter. Austin. My Austin.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened. A new beginning waited.

I stepped out, into the cool New York air, a ghost, invisible to the bustling crowd. But inside, I was finally alive again.