Chapter 4

Amelia Avila POV:

A dull throb started behind my eyes, a constant reminder of the hollow space in my chest. Even after I sent the resignation email, the pain was there. It wasn't the pain of regret for leaving, but the lingering ghost of what I had lost. The life I' d envisioned for us.

Then came the first big win. Our pitch for the new downtown high-rise had been accepted. It was a massive project, a game-changer for AG Designs. A project I had poured my heart and soul into. I should have been ecstatic. I wanted to celebrate, to feel that familiar rush of shared success with Gabe. I even thought, for a fleeting moment, that maybe this success would bring him back, that it would remind him of what we had.

But then, the anonymous message arrived. A video link. My finger hovered over it, a terrible premonition washing over me. I clicked.

The images flickered to life on my phone screen, raw and unedited. Gabe. And Cortney. In our penthouse. Laughing, intimate, doing things no couple, let alone a man and his intern, should be doing. The video ended with Cortney draped across Gabe, whispering something in his ear as he kissed her. It was undeniable. A betrayal so complete, so utterly devastating, that it felt like a physical blow.

Rage, pure and undiluted, consumed me. I felt the blood rush to my head, my vision blurring at the edges. I don't remember driving to the penthouse, only the frantic rush of adrenaline. The elevator ride felt endless, each floor ticking by like a mocking countdown.

The moment the doors hissed open, I burst out, straight to our apartment. The door was unlocked. I threw it open, the sound echoing through the elegant space. Gabe and Cortney were in the living room, oblivious, sharing a bottle of expensive wine. The remnants of a romantic dinner were spread on the coffee table.

"Gabe!" My voice was a raw, primal scream.

They both froze, turning to me, their faces a mixture of shock and guilt. My eyes landed on the wine bottle. I snatched it up, my hand shaking with fury, and hurled it towards them. It shattered against the wall near Gabe's head, red wine splattering like blood.

"How could you?!" I shrieked, tears finally streaming down my face. I wanted an explanation. I wanted an apology. I wanted him to tell me it wasn't real, that it was a mistake.

Instead, Gabe's face contorted in anger. "What the hell, Amelia?!" he roared, pushing Cortney behind him. He took a menacing step towards me. His hand connected with my cheek with a sickening crack. The force of the blow sent me sprawling, my head hitting the edge of the sleek marble coffee table. A sharp, blinding pain shot through my skull, followed by the warm, metallic taste of blood.

My cheek instantly swelled, throbbing with a dull ache that seemed to resonate deep within my bones. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I looked up at him, my vision hazy. For a fleeting second, I thought I saw a flicker of regret in his eyes, a shadow of the man I once knew. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

He glared at me, his eyes blazing, protecting Cortney like a shield. "Haven't you made enough of a scene?!" he sneered.

I lay there, on the cold marble floor, my head throbbing, my cheek stinging. I was the victim, yet he was treating me like the aggressor. I felt a profound sense of wrongness, a dizzying inversion of reality.

After that night, everything shifted. The air in the office, even after my resignation, became thick with unspoken judgment. Whispers followed me down the hallways. The narrative changed, molded by Gabe and Cortney. Suddenly, Cortney was the "rising star," the "new vision" for AG Designs. Gabe showered her with attention, not just romantically, but professionally.

He took her on a lavish trip to Bali for her birthday, posting gushing photos on social media. I, his seven-year partner, had never received such public adoration. Then came the ultimate humiliation: he had a florist deliver hundreds of bouquets of roses to Cortney's office, filling the entire floor with their scent. "For my muse," he'd written on the card, a message that somehow found its way to me. I, his muse for seven years, architect of his dreams, had never received a single flower.

I, the woman who had loved him unconditionally, was made to feel invisible, an afterthought. My love for Gabe had blinded me, made me deaf to the warning signs, oblivious to the insidious rot consuming our relationship. I had been so convinced of his love, so deep in my own devotion, that I couldn't see the truth.

But the marriage certificate. That was the final, undeniable proof. The cold, legal document that formalized his abandonment, his complete disregard for our shared life. It was the ultimate betrayal. My heart, once so full of love for him, felt like a shriveled, empty husk. My love, once an endless wellspring, had been drained dry, leaving behind only dust and despair. It was over. Truly over.