"Hey," he said, trying to kiss my cheek. I turned my head away.
"Just cleaning out some old stuff," I said, my voice void of emotion.
He didn't press. He never did when I got quiet. He just accepted it, disappearing into his home office. The distance between us had been growing for a while, but tonight it felt like a canyon.
I went to my room and started packing a suitcase. I worked methodically, folding clothes, collecting my passport and important documents. I found the brochure for the immigration lawyer I' d spoken to months ago, a secret contingency plan I' d made when the doubts first started creeping in. It was time.
The next morning, while Liam was at the office, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Ashley Peterson standing on the porch, sunglasses perched on her head, looking like she owned the place.
"I'm here to see Liam," she announced, pushing past me into the foyer.
"He's not here," I said coldly.
"I'll wait," she said, flinging her purse onto the antique console table. She wandered into the living room, running a critical eye over the furniture.
"Maria!" she yelled, clapping her hands. Our housekeeper, Maria, a kind woman in her sixties, hurried in from the kitchen.
"Get me a coffee. Black. And be quick about it."
Maria looked at me, her expression a mix of confusion and discomfort. Ashley had been Liam's assistant for six months, but she had never been to our home before.
"Of course, Ms. Peterson," Maria said, her voice tight. She knew, as all the staff did, how important Ashley was to Liam. He had made it clear that her requests were to be treated as his own.
Watching Ashley treat our home like her personal palace, and our staff like her servants, made something in me snap into focus. It wasn't just a sick obsession. Liam was allowing this. He was enabling her. His "revenge" was a farce, a cover for his desire to keep her in his orbit, no matter the cost. And I was the cost.
I left the house without another word to Ashley. I drove straight to the immigration lawyer's office and signed the papers. I was starting the process to move to Europe, to a small, quiet country where no one knew my name.
Later that day, my phone rang. It was Maria, her voice trembling.
"Ms. Miller, you need to come home. It's Ms. Peterson. She's... she's throwing things. She's screaming at everyone."
I could hear Ashley's shrill voice in the background. "Is that her? Is that the pathetic bitch on the phone? Put me on!"
I heard a scuffle, and then Ashley' s voice was in my ear, sharp and venomous. "So, you ran away? Smart girl. You should know your place. This is my house now."
My mind flashed back to high school, to the time Ashley and her friends cornered me in the girls' locker room. They had held me down, cutting off chunks of my hair with a pair of scissors, laughing the whole time. The memory, the raw terror of it, made my stomach clench.
No. Not again. I would not let her terrorize people in my home.
"I'm on my way," I said, my voice low and steady.
I drove back, my hands gripping the steering wheel. When I walked through the door, the living room was a disaster. A vase was shattered on the floor, and cushions were thrown everywhere. Maria and the other two staff members were huddled by the kitchen door, looking terrified.
"She's a monster," Maria whispered to me, her eyes wide. "She called us peasants and said Mr. Harrison would fire us all if we didn't do exactly as she said."
Ashley was lounging on the sofa, a smirk on her face, like a queen surveying her chaotic kingdom.
"Look what the cat dragged in," she sneered. "Come to beg for your man back?"
"Get out of my house, Ashley," I said, my voice shaking slightly despite my best efforts to keep it steady.
She laughed, a high, mocking sound. "Your house? Don't be silly. Liam will give me anything I want. This house, his company, everything. You're just a temporary placeholder."
She stood up and walked towards the kitchen. "I'm hungry. I want some soup."
I followed her. "The staff are done for the day. You can leave."
Our confrontation was escalating. She ignored me, opening the fridge and pulling out the pot of soup Maria had made for dinner. She slammed it on the stove and turned the heat on high.
"I said, I want soup," she repeated, her eyes glittering with malice.
We stood in silence as the soup heated, the tension in the room so thick I could barely breathe. When it was bubbling, she ladled some into a bowl. Then, she turned to me.
Her movements were a blur. One moment she was holding the bowl, the next, it was flying through the air.
Scalding hot liquid splashed across my chest and arm. The pain was instantaneous and blinding. It felt like my skin was on fire.
I screamed, stumbling back, clutching at my burning flesh.
Through a haze of pain, I saw Ashley's face. She was smiling, a look of pure, unadulterated triumph in her eyes.
"Oops," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Clumsy me."
I trembled, the shock and the pain overwhelming me. My skin was already blistering, red and angry.
"Now you have a scar to match your pathetic life," she taunted, her smile widening. "A permanent reminder that you can never, ever win against me."