Chapter 3

Mark didn't come home that night. The next morning, a text message arrived. "Emily's father had a minor health scare. Everything is fine now. I'm staying to make sure she's okay. Will be back tomorrow." He gave an excuse, a plausible reason, but I knew the truth. He wasn't staying for her father, he was staying for her. He would use any excuse to be by her side.

I stood by the large window in the master bedroom, a room we had never truly shared, and watched the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and orange. I hadn't slept. The house was silent, empty. For the first time, the silence didn' t feel lonely, it felt peaceful. I had spent three years hoping he would see me, hoping he would turn around and realize I was there. Last night, watching him run out the door for her, that hope finally died.

It was a quiet, painless death. There was no drama, no shouting. Just a calm, clear realization. He loved her. He would always love her. And I could not compete with a ghost, especially one that was very much alive and standing right in front of him. I deserved more than to be a secret, a convenience, a placeholder. I would leave with my dignity intact.

My resolve hardened, I went back to work. I packed systematically, moving from room to room, erasing every trace of my existence. I packed my clothes, my books, my personal trinkets. The music box my mother had given me, the one he had called ugly, was the first thing I placed carefully into a box padded with soft cloth.

The servants watched me with sad, knowing eyes. They had seen everything, his neglect, my silent suffering. They didn't ask questions, but their sympathy was a quiet comfort.

A few days later, Mark was in his study when a large moving truck, which I had arranged, pulled up the long driveway. He came out, frowning.

"What is this?" he asked, looking at the uniformed men walking toward the house.

"It' s for the charity drive," I said smoothly, using an excuse I had prepared. "I' m donating some old furniture and things from the attic. You said you wanted to clear it out, remember?"

He had said something like that months ago, a passing comment he had long since forgotten. But he nodded, his mind already on other things. "Fine. Just make sure they don' t get in my way."

He went back into his study and closed the door. The movers, instructed by me, began to load my carefully packed boxes onto the truck. They took my bedroom furniture, my personal effects, everything that defined my presence in that house. He was in his study, just a few feet away, and he didn' t even notice that his wife was moving out right under his nose. The irony was so bitter it almost made me laugh. He was, in a way, helping me leave him.

That afternoon, an invitation arrived. It was for the annual Architect' s Guild Gala, the most prestigious event of the year. It was addressed to "Mr. Mark Davis and Guest." The accompanying note from the Guild' s president was more personal. "Mark, we all hope to finally meet the woman who has captured your heart. Bring her along this year."

Everyone in their circle knew he was seeing Emily. They assumed they were a couple. The invitation was a public test. I held it in my hand, the thick cardstock feeling heavy with unspoken meaning. I walked to his study and knocked.

"Come in."

He was at his desk, sketching on a large blueprint. He didn't look up.

I placed the invitation on his desk. "This came for you. For us."

He glanced at it, his expression unreadable. He read the personal note and a faint line appeared between his brows. He remained silent. For a long moment, the only sound was the scratching of his pen on the paper. He was considering it. Considering whether to finally acknowledge me, or to take Emily. The choice hung in the air between us.

I couldn' t bear the thought of him choosing her. I couldn' t stand to be publicly humiliated. I had to protect what little pride I had left.

"I have already made plans to visit Olivia that weekend," I said, my voice even. I was pre-empting his rejection, taking control of the narrative one last time. "Her mother isn' t well. I should be with her." It was a lie, but it was a necessary one.

He finally looked up, his eyes meeting mine. There was a flicker of something in them, maybe relief, maybe guilt. I couldn' t tell. "That' s fine," he said quietly. "Family is important."

I nodded, turning to leave. As I reached the door, I paused, my hand on the doorknob. I looked back at him, hunched over his desk, a man so lost in his own world he couldn' t see the woman who had shared his life for three years was about to disappear from it forever.

"Goodbye, Mark," I said, so softly he probably didn' t hear it. But I said it for myself. It was my final farewell to the man I once loved, and to the life I was leaving behind.