Chapter 3

The next morning, I woke up in a hotel room I didn't remember checking into. My head throbbed, and the ghost of Mark's handprint still burned on my cheek. The torn wedding dress was in a heap on the floor.

[System Warning: Six days remaining until digital erasure.]

The blue text was the first thing I saw. It was my new reality.

I got up and looked at myself in the mirror. I saw a pale, exhausted woman with dark circles under her eyes. The woman Mark had molded. Conservative clothes, long, plain brown hair, no makeup. He liked me "natural," he said. Unassuming. Invisible.

I walked out of the hotel and went to the first salon I could find.

"Shave it," I told the stylist, pointing to the side of my head. "And dye the rest of it electric blue."

Two hours later, I walked out a different person. The cool air on my scalp felt like freedom. Next, I went to a tattoo parlor. I had the artist ink a dying rose on my wrist, with a single petal falling. A reminder of what I had lost, and what I was about to lose.

I went on a shopping spree. I bought everything Mark would have hated. A black leather jacket, ripped jeans, combat boots, dark lipstick. I threw the credit card he paid for on the counter. It would be the last thing he ever bought me.

I went back to the apartment we once shared. My apartment, technically. It was in my name, one of the few things he hadn't absorbed into his corporate entity. His things were still here, cluttering up my space. His expensive suits, his collection of self-important business books, his polished golf clubs.

I didn't pack them. I didn't store them.

I dragged it all into the middle of the living room. His thousand-dollar suits, his signed first editions, photos of us smiling at corporate events. I piled it all up. Then I went to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of lighter fluid and a box of matches.

I methodically, calmly, set my past on fire.

The flames licked up the expensive fabric, consumed the smiling faces. The smoke alarm shrieked, a frantic, piercing sound. I let it scream. It felt like a fitting soundtrack.

My phone rang. It was my best friend, Chloe.

"Ava! What is going on? I saw the news. Are you okay? People are saying you crashed the wedding. You need to fix this. You can still win him back. You guys have ten years of history!"

"The history is burning in my living room, Chloe," I said, watching a photo of Mark and me on a beach in Hawaii curl into black ash.

"What? Ava, you're scaring me! Don't do anything crazy. He's just... he was probably pressured into it by her father. You know how ambitious he is. You need to be the bigger person."

"I've been the bigger person for ten years," I said, my voice flat. "It got me a slap in the face and a death sentence. I'm done."

I hung up before she could argue.

The building's fire suppression system kicked in, dousing the flames with a shower of chemical-laced water. It left a disgusting, soggy, blackened mess in the middle of my expensive apartment. It was perfect. It was exactly how I felt inside.

The doorbell rang.

I opened it to find Mark standing there, his face a mask of fury.

"Are you insane?" he shouted, pushing past me into the ruined living room. He stared at the smoldering pile of his possessions. "What is wrong with you? This is designer clothing! That was a signed copy of-"

"Get out of my apartment, Mark," I said.

He turned to look at me, really look at me, for the first time. His eyes widened at my hair, my tattoo, my clothes.

"What did you do to yourself? You look ridiculous."

He pulled out another check from his jacket pocket. This one was for ten million.

"Look," he said, his tone softening slightly into one of a parent scolding a child. "I know you're hurt. But this little temper tantrum is enough. Take the money. Go buy yourself a new life somewhere else. Disappear. It's the best thing for both of us."

His arrogance was breathtaking. He thought he could burn down my life, then pay to have the rubble quietly swept away.

Before I could answer, a new voice piped up from behind him.

"Mark, honey, is everything okay? I was worried."

Olivia slipped into the apartment, clinging to his arm. She looked around at the mess, her nose wrinkled in disgust. Her eyes landed on me, and she gave a small, fake gasp.

"Oh, Ava. You poor thing. Look at what you've done. This is what grief can do to a person. Mark, we should get her some help. Maybe a nice, quiet hospital."

She was standing in my home, next to the man she stole from me, suggesting I be institutionalized.

She walked closer, her eyes scanning my new look with contempt. "And that hair... it's very... aggressive. You know, Mark always said he hated girls who tried too hard."

That was it. The last thread of my composure snapped.

"Get out," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

Olivia just smiled, a sweet, poisonous smile. "This is a lovely apartment. A bit messy right now, of course. But I can see the potential. I think I'll have a lot of fun redecorating once you're gone."

"I said," I repeated, stepping towards her, "get out."

My hands were clenched into fists at my sides. For the first time in a very long time, I wasn't thinking about code, or patents, or Mark's needs.

I was thinking about how satisfying it would be to wipe that smug smile right off her face.