Chapter 5 No.5

The engagement party was the end.

Cleve had insisted. Not his engagement, of course. That was still a secret between him, Ivanna, and a marriage certificate filed in another state. This party was for his company's CFO. But the entire city would be there. It was a command performance.

"You have to come," he'd said. "It would look strange if you didn't."

Maintaining appearances. That was all she was to him now. The ghost of Mrs. Drake, haunting the halls of his perfect life.

So she went. She wore a simple, elegant dress. She moved through the crowd, a polite smile fixed on her face. Each handshake, each air kiss, was a small act of farewell. This is the last time I will see you, she thought. This is the last time I will play this part.

She was standing on the terrace, overlooking the city lights, when she heard their voices from the other side of a large potted tree. Cleve and his father.

"She seems to be holding up well," his father said.

"She's resilient," Cleve replied. "She'll be fine. The center can practically run itself now. She can take a step back, consult. It will be better for her. Less stress."

A final judgment. He had already planned her future. A slow, graceful fade into irrelevance.

Her blood ran cold. She stepped back from the terrace edge, melting into the shadows. She needed to leave. Now.

As she turned to go, she saw them. Cleve and Ivanna, standing near the grand staircase. He was adjusting her wrap, his hands lingering on her shoulders. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Ivanna laughed, tilting her head back. It was a gesture of pure intimacy. Of ownership.

It was happening in the foyer of the home they had once shared. The place he had carried her over the threshold. The final, brutal desecration of a shared memory.

Cecil walked out the front door.

A light rain had begun to fall, a soft mist that clung to her skin. The doorman rushed forward with an umbrella.

"Mrs. Drake, your car is on its way."

"No, thank you," she said, stepping out from under the awning.

She walked into the rain. The cool drops on her face felt real. Cleansing. She didn't look back.

She was no longer Mrs. Drake. She was not a victim to be managed or a legacy to be curated. She was Cecil Farley. And for the first time in a very long time, she belonged only to herself. The rain was not a storm to be weathered. It was a choice. Her choice.