Chapter 4

The cold metal of the apartment key felt impossibly heavy in my palm. Temporary housing. A small, impersonal studio apartment within the firm's compound, meant for visiting consultants or new hires on a short-term basis. It was a stark contrast to the sprawling luxury condo I had just abandoned, but at least, it was mine. No strings attached. No shared history.

I was clutching my worn duffel bag, the only physical remnants of my past life that mattered to me. My favorite t-shirt, a worn copy of a classic novel, a few cherished photos. Everything else felt like an echo of a life that no longer belonged to me. My arm still ached from the glass shard, a constant reminder of the familial wreckage.

As I walked down the sterile hallway, past rows of identical doors, the elevator chimed, announcing an arrival. The doors slid open, and there they were. Declan, impeccably dressed, a faint frown on his face. And Kisha, radiant in a designer coat, her laughter bubbling up, light and carefree. My stomach clenched. Of course. Of all the times, of all the places.

"Oh, Cayla!" Kisha's eyes, wide and innocent, landed on me. She detached herself from Declan's side, a playful smile on her lips. "What are you doing here? Still here, actually! I thought you'd be settled into your new place by now. Do you need help with your bag? It looks heavy." She reached out, her hand hovering near my duffel.

My entire body recoiled, an involuntary jerk that pulled me away from her touch. The movement was sharp, unwelcoming. I didn't want her pity, her feigned concern. I didn't want her anywhere near me. "I'm fine," I said, my voice clipped, my eyes fixed on a point just past her shoulder.

Declan stepped forward then, his hand gently but firmly taking the strap of my duffel bag. "Cayla has it," he said to Kisha, his voice neutral. He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before he shifted the bag to his other hand. It was a reflex, an old habit. The protector, the helper. But it felt hollow, devoid of genuine care.

Kisha pouted, a theatrical display. "Oh, Declan, you're always so chivalrous! Why didn't you help me with my luggage last night? That's not fair!" She nudged him playfully, her hand resting on his arm.

He chuckled, a low, easy sound that sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. He looked down at her, his expression softening, a genuine warmth in his eyes that I had once longed for. "You know you're perfectly capable, Kisha. And besides," he added, a conspiratorial wink, "I needed to make sure you were comfortable after that terrible flight."

My breath hitched. He had never joked like that with me. Never allowed himself such playful intimacy. My mind reeled back, years ago, when I' d been sick with a high fever, still pushing through a deadline for him. He' d brought me a lukewarm cup of tea, set it on my desk, and simply said, "Don't let it affect your work, Cayla." No warmth, no playful banter, just a cold command. The raw contrast between his past indifference to me and his current attentiveness to Kisha was a sharp, stinging slap to the face. It wasn't just a facade. It was a deliberate choice. He was capable of tenderness, of concern, of affection. He just chose not to show it to me. Because I wasn't Kisha.

"Why are you staying in staff housing, Cayla?" Declan asked, his voice breaking through my painful reverie. He still held my duffel bag, a strange, awkward gesture of assistance. "Didn't you tell me the condo was for sale? Where are you planning to go after that?" His tone was tinged with genuine confusion, a hint of concern that felt utterly misplaced.

My mouth curved into a bitter smile. "The condo is for sale, Declan," I said, my voice flat, devoid of any emotion. I watched his face for a reaction, any flicker of understanding. "I put it on the market yesterday."

He blinked. "Yesterday? That was quick. Well, I suppose it makes sense. The market is good right now. Good investment, really." He nodded, as if discussing a property acquisition, not the dissolution of our shared life. He didn't ask why I sold it, or where I would live. Only about the market. Only about the pragmatic, financial aspect of it all.

The last vestiges of hope, that tiny, foolish spark deep within me, extinguished. I had expected... I don't know what I expected. Anger? Concern? A question about us? But not this. Not this utter, complete indifference. He didn't care. Not about the home we built, not about my sudden homelessness, not about the life we were supposed to share. It was just a transaction to him. A good investment.

Kisha, sensing the shift in mood, tugged at Declan's arm. "Come on, Declan, let's go. I'm starving. And I need you to look at those new design sketches I did for the park. You said they were brilliant!" She shot me a smug, triumphant glance, a silent victory dance.

Declan, still holding my bag, hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on me, a faint crease between his brows. But Kisha' s insistent tug won out. He dropped my bag unceremoniously at my feet, a small puff of dust rising from the scuffed canvas. "I'll see you around, Cayla," he said, the words a dismissal. Then, he turned, Kisha already pulling him towards the elevator, her laughter ringing out once more.

I watched them go, the elevator doors sliding shut, leaving me standing alone in the silent hallway. My chest ached, a hollow, gaping wound. My hands trembled, not from cold, but from a profound sense of humiliation and worthlessness. I had given him ten years. Ten years of my life, my talent, my unwavering devotion. And in return, he had dismissed me, effortlessly, like a forgotten item on a checklist.

My mind replayed his words: "Good investment, really." Was that all I was to him? A good investment? My entire existence, my love, my very being, reduced to a calculable asset, easily liquidated. He hadn't seen me. Not truly. He had seen a function, a utility, a convenient presence. And now that utility was gone, and he simply moved on to the next.

A suffocating wave of despair washed over me. My eyes burned, but no tears fell. The pain was too deep for tears. It was a cold, desolate ache that settled deep in my bones. My throat constricted, a knot of sorrow and righteous anger. He had taken so much. Everything. And now, he had taken my very sense of self. He had diminished me, reduced me to nothing. I sank to the floor, my back against the wall, the heavy duffel bag a pathetic monument to my shattered life. The emptiness inside me was a vast, echoing chasm.