Chapter 4 No.4

The day of the engagement party, Cayla began to sever the final threads.

She woke up and deactivated her social media accounts. The ones filled with curated, professional posts related to Grafton's business. A digital ghost vanishing into the ether.

It was a small act of rebellion, but it was hers.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Jeramy Santos, one of Grafton's friends.

Hey, Cayla. Saw the party setup on Cherrelle's story. Looks amazing. You always did know how to make Grafton look good.

The words were meant to be a compliment. They felt like an epitaph. You always did. Past tense.

She typed back a simple, polite response.

Thanks, Jeramy. I just did my job.

She added: By the way, I won't be working for him anymore after tonight.

She hit send before she could second-guess it. It was the first time she had told anyone. Saying it made it real.

Jeramy's reply was instant. What? Why? Did something happen?

She stared at the question. How could she explain five years of slow-burning despair in a text message? The truth was a story too heavy to tell.

It's just time for a change, she typed. A bland, corporate lie to cover a raw, gaping wound.

She put the phone down and let the memories come. Not the painful ones. The good ones. The ones that made leaving feel like tearing off a limb.

A dream from the night before surfaced. Justen, smiling at her from across a sun-drenched café. He wasn't saying anything, just looking at her with that familiar, loving gaze. The warmth of the dream still lingered, a phantom limb aching for what was lost.

She had woken up with tears on her cheeks.

The cruelty wasn't just the abuse. It was the hope he had given her first. The memory of that love was what Grafton and Cherrelle had systematically dismantled, piece by piece. They hadn't just hurt her; they had desecrated a memory.

She stood up and walked to her closet. There was one box left. It was filled with small, useless things. A dried flower from a bouquet Justen had given her. A ticket stub from a concert. A cheap keychain Grafton had won at a carnival and tossed to her when he was sixteen, a rare moment of boyish charm before the bitterness set in completely.

She held the keychain in her palm. A small, plastic race car.

The irony was not lost on her.

The apartment buzzer rang, startling her. She checked the intercom. It was Grafton.

She let him in. He strode into her apartment, his eyes scanning the sparse room, the packed boxes.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, gesturing at the boxes. "Are you moving?"

"Yes," she said simply.

His eyes narrowed. He saw the box of trinkets in her hand. He strode over and snatched the keychain from her palm.

"This junk?" He scoffed, his lip curling in disdain. "You're still holding onto this worthless piece of plastic?"

Worthless.

The word hung in the air.

He was right. It was worthless. All of it. The keychain, the memories, the five years she had given him. It was all worthless to him.

"You're right," she said, her voice eerily calm. "It's junk."

She took the box from the table, walked to the trash chute in the hallway, and emptied its contents inside. The sound of the small items clattering down the metal shaft was the sound of her past disappearing forever.

She turned back to him, her face a blank canvas.

"Is there something you needed?"

He stared at her, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. He had expected tears, a protest, something. Her calm emptiness seemed to unnerve him.

"The rings," he said, recovering his composure. "The jeweler is here. Bring them up."

He turned and left without another word.

She was just the help, after all. Even on her last day.