Chapter 3

I moved into a small, furnished apartment across town, a temporary stop before my flight. The days that followed were a painful limbo. I had to wait for the final paperwork from Liam' s lawyer before I could truly be free.

One afternoon, Liam called. His voice was tired. "Eleanor, can you come over to the new house? Sarah needs some things, and I have to be at a meeting."

I wanted to say no, to tell him to handle his own problems. But a part of me, a foolish, tired part, just wanted this to be over. "Fine," I said.

The house he had bought for Sarah was a large, modern villa in an expensive neighborhood. It was bigger and more luxurious than our old apartment. As I walked through the front door, I saw him fussing over her, helping her settle onto a large, comfortable sofa. He adjusted a pillow behind her back, his movements gentle and practiced.

"Are you comfortable? Do you need anything? Water? Juice?" he asked, his voice soft.

"I' m fine, Mr. Vance," she said, smiling up at him sweetly.

The scene was so domestic, so intimate. It was a painful echo of how he used to care for me when I was sick. He would bring me soup, fluff my pillows, and read to me for hours. Now, that tenderness belonged to someone else.

Liam finally noticed me standing in the doorway. He straightened up, a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

"Eleanor. Thanks for coming." He walked over to me, his expression shifting to one of strained concern. "How' s your back? The doctor said the burns were healing well."

Before I could answer, Sarah called out from the sofa. "Mr. Vance, I' m feeling a little hungry. Could I have some of that ginger and date soup? The one you said Eleanor makes so well. The doctor said it' s good for me."

Her request was deliberate, a calculated move to assert her dominance. That soup was special to us. It was a recipe my grandmother had taught me, something I only made for Liam on cold winter nights. It was a symbol of our shared history, our intimacy. And now she was demanding it, turning it into just another item on her list of cravings.

Liam looked at me, a silent plea in his eyes. "Could you? Just this once? The housekeeper is off today, and I don' t know how to make it."

I felt a surge of humiliation. I was being asked to cook for my husband' s pregnant mistress in her new home. The absurdity of it was overwhelming. But I looked at Liam' s exhausted face, and I saw the man I had once loved, trapped by his family' s expectations. So, I nodded. Again.

I went into the spacious, state-of-the-art kitchen and began to prepare the soup. The familiar motions of chopping ginger and pitting dates were automatic, but my mind was a storm of memories. I remembered making this soup for Liam after his grandfather had punished him for choosing me. He had been bruised and hurting, but he had smiled when he tasted it and told me it was the taste of home.

Now, I was making it for the woman who had destroyed that home. As the soup simmered on the stove, filling the kitchen with its warm, spicy scent, I felt a piece of my heart grow cold and hard.

Two days later, my quiet life was shattered again. I was at my apartment, reading a book, when two large men in black suits knocked on my door. They were from the Vance family.

"Mrs. Vance," one of them said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Mr. Liam Vance requires your presence at the hospital."

"Why? What happened?" I asked, a sense of dread creeping over me.

"Ms. Miller has had a fall. She is accusing you of pushing her."

I stared at him, utterly shocked. "What? That' s impossible. I haven' t seen her in two days."

"Please come with us, ma' am," the man said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

They escorted me to the hospital, to a private room where Sarah was lying in bed, crying pitifully. Liam was by her side, holding her hand, his face a mask of fury. Several Vance family elders, including Liam' s stern-faced father and his weeping mother, were also in the room.

As soon as I walked in, Liam pointed a finger at me. "Eleanor! How could you? She could have lost the baby!"

His accusation, delivered without any proof, without even asking for my side of the story, shocked me into silence.

"I didn' t do it," I finally managed to say, my voice trembling. "I wasn' t even there."

"She says you came to the house and argued with her," Liam' s father, Mr. Vance Sr., said, his voice cold as ice. "She says you pushed her down the stairs."

"That' s a lie!" I cried, looking from face to face, searching for any sign of belief. There was none. They all looked at me with contempt and accusation.

"Liam, you know me," I pleaded, turning to him. "You know I would never do something like that."

He wouldn' t meet my eyes. He just kept stroking Sarah' s hair, murmuring words of comfort to her.

His mother stepped forward, her face streaked with tears. "You were always a bad influence. Barren and bitter. You couldn' t give our family a child, so now you want to destroy the one we finally have."

Her words were cruel, designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain.

"That' s enough," Mr. Vance Sr. said. He looked at me with cold, hard eyes. "You will be punished for this. To endanger a Vance heir is an unforgivable crime."

He turned to his men. "Take her to the family chapel. She will kneel and repent until we are satisfied."

I looked at Liam one last time, a desperate, silent appeal. He remained silent. He didn' t defend me. He didn' t even look at me. He had made his choice.

The two men grabbed my arms and dragged me out of the room, my pleas for justice echoing unanswered in the hospital corridor. I was being punished for a crime I didn' t commit, condemned by the man who had once promised to protect me from the world.