Chapter 2

The next morning, Sarah dressed with unusual care.

A simple, dark dress, low heels.

She looked like she was going to a business meeting, not just another day in the gilded cage.

Ethan was already in the dining room, scanning a financial report, coffee cup in hand.

He glanced up when she entered. His eyes lingered for a second longer than usual.

A flicker of something. Surprise? Annoyance? She couldn' t tell.

"I' ve instructed my lawyer to expedite everything," Sarah said, her voice calm and even. "You' ll have your freedom soon, Ethan."

He put down his paper, his gaze sharp.

"Are you really serious about this, Sarah?"

There was a hint of disbelief in his tone, as if he still expected her to break down, to retract.

"Completely serious," she replied. She picked up her purse. "I have an appointment."

She turned to leave.

"Sarah."

His voice stopped her at the door. She looked back.

He was standing, a confused, almost troubled expression on his face. It was quickly masked.

"Never mind," he said, turning away. "Do what you need to do."

She walked out, a strange lightness in her step.

The divorce proceedings were surprisingly smooth, handled with cold efficiency by their respective lawyers.

Sarah offered no resistance, made no demands beyond the dissolution of the marriage.

Ethan, through his lawyer, seemed almost eager to get it over with. He probably thought she was trying to trap him.

She packed her life into one suitcase. Her personal belongings, a small portfolio of her graphic design work.

The house was full of things, expensive things, but none of them felt like hers.

She spent her last afternoon in the Hayes mansion writing notes.

Detailed instructions for Mrs. Peterson, the head housekeeper.

Ethan' s coffee preferences – Colombian blend, two sugars, a splash of cream, brewed at precisely 165 degrees.

His dry-cleaning schedule.

The specific way his shirts needed to be ironed.

Which meals he preferred on which days.

Contact numbers for his tailor, his preferred florist for office arrangements, the wine merchant who knew his tastes.

She even listed the quiet classical music he sometimes liked playing in his study late at night.

Meticulous. Just like she' d always been in her care for him.

When she was done, she left the stack of neatly handwritten cards on the kitchen island.

Ethan wasn' t home when she left. It was better that way.

She paused at the door, looking back at the grand, silent foyer.

No regrets. Only a quiet sadness for the love she' d wasted, the years she' d lost.

And a deeper, colder fear for the time she had left.

"Goodbye," she whispered to the empty house.

Then she walked out, pulling her small suitcase behind her.

Ethan returned late that evening, expecting the usual quiet order of his home.

But something felt off.

The air was still. Too still.

He called out, "Sarah?"

Silence.

Then he remembered. She was gone. Divorced.

He shrugged it off. Good. Less complication.

He could finally pursue Jessica without any baggage.

He went to the kitchen for his usual late-night snack.

The coffee from the pot was lukewarm, bitter. Not Sarah' s precise brew.

The fridge held nothing he recognized as easily palatable.

He grumbled, settling for a glass of water.

The next morning, his preferred coffee wasn' t ready.

The new temporary housekeeper, hired quickly by Mrs. Peterson, fumbled.

"Mr. Hayes, sir, I' m not sure about the blend..."

"Sarah always handled it," Mrs. Peterson explained later, her expression carefully neutral. "She had a specific way."

His breakfast was bland. His favorite shirt wasn' t in the closet, still at the dry-cleaners because Sarah hadn' t been there to manage the schedule.

Small things. Annoyances.

He found her handwritten notes on the kitchen island later that day.

Page after page of his preferences, his routines, all laid out in her neat, elegant script.

A strange pang went through him. Unidentifiable.

He frowned, pushing the feeling away.

She was just being overly dramatic with the notes. Trying to make a point.

He tossed them onto the counter. He' d have his assistant type them up for the staff.

He was free. That' s what mattered.