Chapter 5

Aurelia POV:

The doorbell rang again, insistent this time. I walked to the door, my hand gripping the cold metal of the knob. I took a deep breath, steeling myself. This wasn't the old Aurelia. This wasn't the wife who would cower or cry.

I opened the door. Chandler stood there, looking triumphant, a plastic bag in one hand. And behind him, clinging to his arm, was Britni. Her eyes were red-rimmed and unfocused, her hair slightly mussed, but a sly, almost smug smirk played on her lips. She was swaying just enough to appear convincingly drunk.

"Aurelia, darling," Chandler said, his voice forced light, but his eyes were hard. "Britni had a bit too much champagne celebrating tonight. She's in no state to go home alone." He gestured vaguely with the bag. "I brought you some ice cream, just like I promised."

Britni leaned against him, her head lolling. "Aurelia," she slurred, her voice saccharine, "Chandler says you're so good at making... you know... that hangover soup. Could you... could you make some for poor little me?" She batted her eyelashes, a performance worthy of an Oscar. She was a master manipulator. My stomach churned.

Chandler gave me a pointed look. "She needs looking after, Aurelia. She's distraught over some of the rumors swirling about her. You should be more understanding." He spoke as if I was the cause of her "distress." As if I hadn' t just seen his public declaration of love for her.

I felt a cold dread seep into my bones, quickly followed by a white-hot rage. Here. He brought her here. To our home. And expected me to play hostess? To cook for his mistress?

"Are you serious?" My voice was barely a whisper, laced with disbelief, then rising with a chilling clarity. "You brought your... friend... to our house, in the middle of the night, and you expect me to play nursemaid?"

Chandler' s jaw tightened. "She's my aide, Aurelia. And she's had a rough night. Show some compassion." He pushed the bag of ice cream into my hands. "Now, go make her that soup. She needs it."

My hands, clutching the cold plastic bag, started to tremble. This was it. The absolute, undeniable end. The betrayal wasn't just a wound; it was a gaping, festering chasm.

"Chandler," I said, my voice shaking with a fury I hadn't known I possessed. "Are you telling me that out of all the people in her life, all her 'friends' and 'colleagues' and 'campaign staff,' there isn't a single one who could take her home? She has to come here? She couldn't possibly stay at a hotel? A five-star hotel, perhaps, paid for by your campaign funds?"

His face darkened. "Don't be ridiculous, Aurelia. She's upset. And you're being utterly unreasonable."

"Unreasonable?" I scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "You expect me to make soup for your mistress, in my own home, while you parade her around as your 'future' on social media?"

Chandler's face was thunderous. "She is not my mistress! She's a colleague! And you-"

Before he could finish, a piercing shriek echoed through the entryway. Britni, who had been leaning against the wall, suddenly threw herself backward, letting out a theatrical cry. She tumbled down the few steps leading to the main living area, landing with a soft thud.

Chandler's eyes widened in horror. He rushed to her side, dropping to his knees. "Britni! Are you okay?" He gently shook her.

She whimpered, her eyes fluttering open, then fixed on me with a malevolent glare. "She... she pushed me!" she cried, her voice surprisingly strong for someone supposedly injured. "Aurelia pushed me!"

Chandler's head snapped up. His eyes, burning with a cold, righteous fury, locked onto mine. "You bitch! What did you do?!"

I stood there, the ice cream bag still in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. The frame. The accusation. The moment he'd chosen her, irrevocably, over me.

But this time, I was ready.

My hand went to my pocket, pulling out a crisp, white envelope. I held it out to him, my hand steady despite the tremor running through my body.

"Sign these, Chandler," I said, my voice clear and unwavering, cutting through his rage. "Then you and your... aide... can be as happy as you pretend to be. In a house that isn't mine."

He stared at the envelope, then at me, then back at Britni, who was now dramatically clutching her ankle. His face was a mask of confusion, then pure, unadulterated rage. He snatched the papers from my hand.

"What is this nonsense?" he spat, his eyes blazing. He barely glanced at the top-sheet. His name, Aurelia Reese vs. Chandler Roberson, Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. "You think this is funny, Aurelia? A game?"

"It's not a game, Chandler," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "It's the end."

He ripped the pen from his jacket pocket, his hand shaking with anger. Without a second glance, without reading a single line, he scrawled his signature across the document. "There! Happy now? You want a divorce? Fine! Consider it done! Now get out of my sight!" He threw the pen at my feet.

His eyes were still fixed on me, filled with venom. He clearly thought this was another one of my "dramatic gestures," something he could smooth over later. Something I would regret.

He was wrong. So utterly, irrevocably wrong.