Chapter 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. Honestly, I always thought you'd be the one to finally melt that block of ice he calls a heart. A shame it ended up this way.

The words were meant to be a compliment. They felt like an epitaph. *You always did.* Past tense. And everyone, even she herself, had been so wrong. She hadn't been trying to melt Grafton's heart; she'd been trying to piece together her own, using him as a substitute for the man she'd truly lost. It was a mistake, a five-year-long delusion born of grief.

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 memories of Justen. The ones that made leaving this life, this city, 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. For five years, she had served his memory. Now, it was time to let him go, too. To truly move forward, she had to let go of both brothers.

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 Justen had won for her at a carnival, teasing his sixteen-year-old brother for being a sore loser. Grafton had scowled, a rare moment of boyish petulance 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 my brother gave you?"

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 as she met his gaze. "It's just junk."She had to let it all go.

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. They delivered these, too."He tossed a large, branded shopping bag onto a box. It was from a famously expensive designer. "A little bonus for all your hard work. It's worth a hell of a lot more than that plastic keychain. Don't say I never give you anything."

He turned and left without another word.

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

Cayla picked up the designer bag, its weight obscene. Without a second glance, she walked back to the trash chute and dropped it in. It vanished with a soft, expensive thud.