Chapter 2

The digital click of the 'send' button reverberated in my ears, louder than any spoken word could have been. It sealed my refusal, a defiance I hadn't known I possessed. I closed the messaging app, my breath catching in my throat, a strange mix of terror and exhilaration bubbling inside me. There was no going back now.

I swept through the condo, a ghost in my own, soon-to-be-former life. Every item I owned, every trace of Cayla Norris, was systematically being erased. The few clothes I had left, already folded into suitcases. My architectural sketches, the ones he hadn't claimed, were rolled and tucked away. It was easy, almost too easy, to pack my life into a few boxes. It struck me then, a cold, hard truth: I hadn't left much of a mark on his life at all. I was a tenant, not an owner. A shadow, not a presence. He wouldn't even notice I was gone until the coffee stopped appearing on his desk, or his schedule mysteriously fell apart.

I had already contacted a realtor. The condo, purchased primarily with Declan's money, would be sold. My share, a meager fraction, would be enough to start anew. "Sell it all," I' d told the agent, my voice devoid of emotion. "I want nothing left."

My transfer was approved, but there was a week's overlap. A necessary evil, an administrative delay before I could truly vanish. I had to remain in New York for a few more days, a prisoner in my own crumbling narrative.

The storm hit that evening. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder rumbled like an angry god. My phone buzzed again, a frantic rhythm against the quiet beat of my heart. Declan.

We' re back. The weather is insane. Kisha' s freezing. Where are you?

"Kisha's freezing." The words pierced through the cold resolve I was trying to build around myself. Always Kisha. Always someone else. I remembered a similar night, years ago. A massive blizzard had shut down the city. I'd been stuck at the office, working on an urgent project Declan needed for a last-minute presentation. He called from his warm apartment, "Cayla, can you manage? I need those renders by morning." Not, "Are you okay?" Not, "Can I send you a car?" Just the work. The project. Me, the tool.

I' d worked through the night, the wind howling outside, the heating in the office barely functioning. My fingers had gone numb, my teeth chattered, but I pushed through. I delivered. When he saw the finished product, he' d simply nodded. "Good job, Cayla. Now get some rest." No warmth, no gratitude, just a perfunctory acknowledgment of a task completed. The pain of that memory was a dull ache.

I gripped my phone, my knuckles white. I wouldn't respond. Not this time. I wouldn't be the reliable, ever-present Cayla who dropped everything to cater to his whims. That woman was gone. Or, she was trying to be.

The next morning, I found myself in the firm's main conference room. A mandatory celebration for the successful completion of the waterfront project. Declan's latest triumph. I slipped in quietly, choosing a seat at the back, hoping to melt into the background. I was a ghost at my own wake.

Declan and Kisha were at the center of it all, bathed in the glow of success and admiration. He looked invigorated, handsome as ever in his impeccably tailored suit, a confident smile playing on his lips. Kisha, vibrant and effervescent in a bright red dress, clung to his arm, her laughter echoing a little too loudly in the room. They looked like a triumphant couple, the architects of the future. I watched them, a dull ache in my chest, a sense of profound detachment settling over me. They were a tableau, and I was merely a bystander.

"Cayla!" Kisha's voice, surprisingly sharp, cut through the crowd. My head snapped up. She was looking directly at me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "There you are! Declan and I were just talking about you. So, about last night... you really left Declan stranded at the airport? In that storm?" Her tone was light, but there was an underlying challenge, a thinly veiled accusation of neglect.

All eyes turned to me. The whispers began, a low hum of curiosity and judgment. I felt the familiar heat rise to my cheeks, but this time, it was laced with a different kind of fire. Anger.

"I had other commitments, Kisha," I said, my voice steady, though my heart hammered against my ribs. I met her gaze, refusing to flinch. "My personal time is my own."

Declan, who had been laughing a moment ago, froze. His eyes, usually so impassive, widened slightly as he looked at me. It was a flicker of genuine surprise, perhaps even confusion. He hadn't seen this Cayla before. The one who spoke her mind, who set boundaries. The one who wasn't afraid to say no.

I realized then that he saw me, not as an individual with a life of my own, but as an extension of himself. A highly efficient, perfectly organized extension, designed to streamline his existence. He expected me to be there, always. To anticipate, to facilitate, to solve. I was his indispensable tool. And tools don't have "other commitments." They don't have personal time.

After the gathering, as I was gathering my sparse belongings from my desk, a shadow fell over me. Declan. He stood there, tall and imposing, his usual aura of cool detachment now tinged with a subtle irritation. "Cayla," he said, his voice low, "what was that all about? Kisha was just trying to be friendly."

I turned to face him, my expression blank. "Was she?" My voice was flat, devoid of the warmth it had always held for him.

"You're being unreasonable," he continued, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know things have been hectic with the project, and the wedding planning... but you can't just abandon your responsibilities. I needed you last night. And the files for the upcoming bid? They're a mess. I need you to sort them out before you leave for Detroit."

My eyes narrowed. "My responsibilities?" The words were a bitter echo of all the years I'd shouldered his burdens. "Declan," I said, using his full name for the first time in an argument, the formality a stark contrast to the intimate address I once used, "my responsibilities to you ended the moment I realized I was just a glorified drafting assistant, a personal assistant, and a live-in maid, all rolled into one, with a ring on her finger as a token of your guilt."

He flinched. The casual irritation vanished, replaced by a stunned disbelief. His mouth opened, then closed. He looked at me as if he were seeing a stranger. And perhaps he was. The old Cayla, the one he knew, the one who would silently absorb his slights and rationalize his neglect, was gone.

"I am no longer your fiancée," I stated, my voice clear and steady, the words echoing in the quiet office. "And I am certainly no longer your assistant. Our engagement is off."

He stared at me, his face devoid of color, as if I had just uttered a foreign language. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, between us.