Chapter 5 No.5

Alex Bennett POV:

He left. I watched his broad back disappear down the hall, and I felt... nothing. The space where pain used to be was just a cold, hollow void. He paused at the door, turning back for a moment.

"I love you," he murmured, the words automatic, reflexive, like saying "bless you" after a sneeze. He blew me a kiss, a pantomime of affection for anyone who might be watching. "I'll have them bring you some of that tiramisu you like."

The tiramisu. My eyes stung. It was a stupid, small thing, but it was our thing. In the early days, when the boys were small and there were moments of peace, we would sneak down to the kitchen after they were asleep. He' d feed me bites of tiramisu with a spoon, laughing when I got cocoa powder on my nose.

"You're sweeter than any dessert, Alex," he used to whisper, his eyes soft with an emotion I had mistaken for love.

That Justin Barlow was gone. Maybe he never existed at all. Just another role he played to get what he wanted.

A tear escaped and traced a cold path down my cheek. The memory of that warmth made the present chill even more unbearable. It was all a lie. A beautiful, tempting, soul-destroying lie.

From the doorway, I saw Beckham and Bertram hesitate. They looked from their weeping mother to me, sitting alone on the sofa. For a second, I saw a flicker of guilt in Beckham's eyes. A shadow of the boy who used to bring me dandelions from the park.

But then Carolina let out a soft, wounded sound, and their attention snapped back to her. She shot me a look over their heads, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred. She hated that even now, a small part of them still remembered that I was the one who had actually raised them.

As soon as they were gone, their manufactured family drama moving back into the main ballroom, I pushed myself up. Pain shot through my ankle, but I ignored it. I limped up the grand staircase to our bedroom.

It was time to go.

I pulled out the single suitcase I had packed that morning. It wasn't large. Ten years of my life, and all I was taking were a few changes of clothes, my personal documents, and a small box of photos from my life before Justin.

As I opened a drawer to retrieve my passport, my fingers brushed against something soft. A cashmere scarf. It was a hideous shade of mismatched green and blue, and the knitting was lumpy and uneven.

I ran my thumb over the clumsy stitches. It was a birthday gift from the boys six years ago. They had made it themselves in an after-school club.

I remember trying to throw it out once, during a closet clean-out. Maria, the housekeeper, had stopped me.

"Ma'am, no," she had said, her eyes wide with shock. "This is your favorite. The boys made it for you."

She told me how they had spent weeks on it, how Bertram had cried in frustration when he kept dropping stitches, how Beckham had secretly unraveled his brother's mistakes at night and re-knitted them. They were so proud to give it to me.

I used to wear it all the time, even though it clashed with everything. I loved it.

I held it for a moment, the soft wool a ghost of a warmth that no longer existed. Then, I folded it neatly and placed it back in the drawer. I couldn't take it with me.

I was finishing my packing when my phone buzzed again. This time, it was a news alert. A photo of Justin, Carolina, Beckham, and Bertram filled the screen. They were standing together, Justin's arm protectively around Carolina's shoulders, the boys beaming at their mother. It looked like a perfect family portrait.

The headline was brutal: Justin Barlow and Ex-Wife Carolina Ortega Reignite an Old Flame? Barlow's Current Wife, Alex Bennett, Nowhere in Sight After Public Humiliation.

The comments section was a fresh circle of hell. The words blurred together, a tide of anonymous cruelty. They called her a failure, an opportunist. They dissected her life, her past, turning her deepest pains into public spectacle. Each comment was a small, sharp stone thrown from the safety of a screen.

The word orphan made me flinch. My hands started to shake. They were right. I was an orphan. My parents died in a car crash when I was nineteen. One moment they were here, the next they were gone. I was left alone to care for my fifteen-year-old sister, Lily, who had a rare and aggressive form of leukemia.

The doctors gave her six months. Our insurance wouldn't cover the experimental treatment that was her only hope. I was desperate. I was working three jobs and still couldn't afford the medical bills.

That's when I met Golda Barlow. She had seen my parents' obituary. My father had been a junior architect at a firm that had done some work for the Barlow Corporation decades ago. It was a tenuous connection, but it was enough. She made me an offer. A contract.

Ten years of my life as a stable, respectable mother figure for her grandsons in exchange for Lily getting the best medical care in the world.

It wasn't a choice. It was a lifeline. I signed my life away to save hers.

And these strangers on the internet, they took my deepest pain and twisted it into another weapon to use against me.

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a text. From Golda.

It was a picture. A crisp, official-looking document. A divorce certificate, already stamped and processed.

Beneath it, a short message: It's done. He can't touch you now. Go to Lily's. I've arranged everything. You are free, my dear.

A wave of relief so profound it almost buckled my knees washed over me. It was real. It was over. I was free.

I zipped the suitcase. The sound was loud and final in the silent room.

Just as I reached for the handle, the bedroom door was thrown open with such force that it slammed against the wall, cracking the plaster.

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