Chapter 4 Alesia that she was finally alone

The small apartment smelled of fresh paint and pine-scented cleaning fluid. The walls were bare, the furniture minimal-just a couch, a modest kitchen table, and a bed that barely fit against the far wall-but it was hers. Every creak in the floor, every echo in the corners reminded Alesia that she was finally alone. Free. But freedom, she was learning, was not the same as peace.

It had been four days since she left the penthouse.

Four days of silence from Kaelan.

Four days of waking up with her heart aching, her body turning to the other side of the bed out of habit-only to be met with cold sheets.

She hadn't told anyone where she had gone. Not even her sister. Not her friends. A part of her feared they would try to convince her to go back, to reconsider. And another part... the deeper, wounded part... just wanted to disappear until the pain no longer gnawed at her from within.

Alesia stood in front of the mirror in her bathroom, staring at her reflection. She looked thinner. Her face was paler, her cheekbones more defined than usual. The dark circles under her eyes betrayed her sleepless nights. She hadn't cried-not yet. The tears hadn't come. Instead, there was just numbness.

She pressed her palm to her stomach.

It had always been the subject of scrutiny, of tension-her body's betrayal, as Kaelan's family had so kindly put it. Infertile. Inadequate. A barrier between him and the legacy he wanted so desperately to leave behind.

But it wasn't just her womb they rejected.

It was her.

And still, even after everything, her heart ached for him.

She had loved Kaelan with everything she had. She had endured the subtle glances from his mother, the whispered conversations with his cousins, the dinners where the only thing on the table thicker than the soup was the tension. She had given and given until she was empty. And when she was at her lowest, when she needed him to fight for her the most... he had offered her a co-wife.

A replacement.

A choice that didn't include her.

That morning, she finally left the apartment for more than groceries. She needed air. She needed a distraction. So she took the train downtown and wandered the art district, letting her feet carry her past rows of galleries and cafes.

It wasn't long before she found herself inside a small gallery, the kind tucked between coffee shops and bookstores. The air smelled of oil paint and wood varnish. Abstract canvases filled the walls-chaotic strokes of reds, blues, and blacks. Some pieces made her feel something. Others made her angry. She didn't know why.

"That one's intense, huh?" a voice beside her said.

Alesia turned. A man stood a few feet away, gazing at the same painting she had been staring at-an explosion of jagged lines and deep crimson. His hair was tousled, his expression thoughtful.

"I'm not sure I like it," she admitted softly.

"Me neither," he said. "But I can't stop looking at it."

She smiled faintly. "Maybe that's the point."

He turned to face her. "You look like you've had a long week."

"That obvious?"

"Only to people who've had one too."

They didn't exchange names. They didn't need to. The moment passed, and so did he-off to the next painting, off to the next thought. But his words lingered with her as she left the gallery and returned to the street.

That night, back in her apartment, Alesia stood by the window, watching the city flicker in the distance. The gallery, the stranger, the silence-they all reminded her of something she had forgotten: she had once been a person before Kaelan. Before the marriage, before the pressure, before the betrayal.

She used to paint. Not professionally. Not even well. But she had loved it. In college, she would sit in the garden behind her dorm and lose herself in watercolors, sketching faces that didn't exist, emotions she hadn't yet experienced. It had been years since she picked up a brush.

She walked to her bag, pulling out a small sketchpad she'd thrown in during the move. She didn't even remember why she brought it.

She flipped to a clean page, stared at it for a long time, then picked up a pencil.

At first, her hand trembled. Then it moved.

She drew a pair of hands-delicate, strong, intertwined. But one hand was fading, the lines softer, like it was disappearing. The other gripped harder, trying to hold on.

Her breath hitched.

She dropped the pencil.

The tears came.

At last.

They came violently, dragging sobs from deep within her chest, raw and ugly and unrelenting. She sank to the floor, hugging her knees, rocking herself as the flood of emotion broke through the dam she had built since the moment she walked out of Kaelan's home.

She cried for what she had lost.

For what she had endured.

For the version of herself that she had given up to be his wife.

It was nearly dawn by the time her tears dried. She sat in the corner of the living room, exhausted, empty. But something had shifted.

She didn't feel lighter.

But she felt clearer.

Three days later, Alesia received a letter. Handwritten. No return address.

The moment she saw the familiar slant of the cursive writing, her heart stalled.

Kaelan.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper and read.

Alesia,

I won't ask you to forgive me. Not yet. I know I've failed you in the worst way. I know I chose cowardice over courage. But please know-losing you feels like suffocating. Like trying to live in a house without windows.

I don't know if I deserve another chance. I probably don't. But I need to say this: I was wrong. About everything. About what family means. About what legacy means. I thought I was protecting us. I see now I was only protecting my own pride.

You are my home, Alesia.

And I will wait-for however long it takes-for you to believe that again.

– Kaelan

Her hands trembled as she folded the letter back up. A dozen thoughts swirled through her head. Anger. Pain. Longing. Hope.

But she didn't know what to feel.

Not yet.

She needed time.

She needed space to become Alesia again.

Not Kaelan's wife.

Not the woman who was left behind.

But the woman who chose herself.