Chapter 3

Avery Bright POV:

I don't know how long I sat there on the cold tile, shivering, before the water finally stopped. I stripped off the soaking dress and wrapped myself in a towel, my movements stiff and robotic. I walked to the guest room, avoiding my own, unable to face the scene of my final humiliation.

As I passed the master bedroom, the door was ajar. I couldn't help but look. Alexander was sitting on the edge of our bed, the bed we had shared for years, and he was gently wrapping a bandage around Kiara's finger. The lamplight softened the lines of his face, casting him in a gentle glow. The look in his eyes... it was the same look he had given me after he'd punched that boy for pulling my hair. Protective. Devoted.

And it was all for her. My replacement.

That night, I dreamt of us. Not the good memories, but the small, insidious moments I had ignored. The way his eyes would glaze over when I talked about my work. The impatience in his voice when I called him at the office. The countless "rescheduled" date nights. The cracks had been there all along; I had just been too in love to see them.

I woke up with a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as sandpaper. Stumbling downstairs for a glass of water, I found Kiara sitting at my dining table, sipping tea from my favorite mug. She was wearing one of Alexander's dress shirts, which hung off her small frame, making her look even more waiflike and innocent.

She smiled at me, a lazy, triumphant smirk. "Good morning, Avery. Sleep well?"

I ignored her, heading for the kitchen.

"You know," she continued, her voice light and conversational, "Alex worries so much about you. He says you're like this beautiful, fragile vase that he has to protect from the world." Her smirk widened. "But even the most beautiful vase is just an object. Empty. It's people like me, people with real pain, who can actually make him feel something. I'm not the one destroying your relationship, Avery. I'm the one saving him from it."

"You need professional help," I said, my voice flat.

"Maybe," she conceded. "But I have something you don't. His heart." She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with malice. "He told me everything, you know. About the wedding. About how he couldn't bear to see me hurt, so he married you off to his driver just to get me off his back. A nobody for a nobody. It's almost poetic."

The confirmation, hearing it from her lips, was like swallowing glass. "A man who would do that," I said, my voice dangerously quiet, "isn't a prize to be won, Kiara. He's a liability."

She laughed. "You're just saying that because you lost. You want to see how much you've lost? Let's play a little game."

Before I could react, she grabbed the kettle of boiling water from the counter. Her movements were swift, deliberate. She flung the scalding contents directly at my legs.

The pain was instantaneous and excruciating. I screamed, stumbling back as my skin erupted in angry, red welts. Blisters were already forming on my shin.

At that exact moment, Alexander walked in, his briefcase in hand. "What's going on?"

His eyes widened in alarm as he saw me on the floor, clutching my leg. For a split second, I saw a flicker of the old Alex, the one who would have rushed to my side.

But then Kiara burst into tears. "Alex! I'm so sorry!" she wailed, rushing to him. "I was just trying to make Avery some tea to apologize for last night, and she... she knocked it out of my hands! She said I wasn't worthy of being in her kitchen!"

I stared at her, dumbfounded by the audacity of her lie.

I watched Alexander's face. The initial shock and concern for me slowly cooled, replaced by a familiar look of weary disappointment. He was already choosing to believe her.

"Avery," he said, his voice laced with disapproval. "Was that really necessary? You know how clumsy she can be."

"She threw it on me, Alex!" I cried, the injustice of it all making the pain even worse. "Look at my leg! Check the security cameras if you don't believe me!"

He scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. You want me to pull security footage in my own home to prove my fiancée is a bully? Do you have any idea how that makes you sound? You're starting to act just like your father, using these petty dramas to get attention."

The mention of my father was a low blow, and he knew it. My father, a man who had cheated on my dying mother and then had the gall to bring his mistress to her funeral. The wound was still raw, a source of deep shame and pain.

My hand moved before I could think. I slapped him, hard, across the face. The sound was sharp, final.

He stood there, stunned, one hand rising to his cheek. He didn't even seem angry, just... resigned.

Kiara chose that moment to let out another pained cry. "Alex, my hand... the one I cut last night... it hurts so much."

His attention snapped back to her instantly. He scooped her up in his arms, his face a mask of concern once more. "I'll take you to the hospital, get it checked out."

As he carried her past me, he paused. "The driver will be here in five minutes to take you to get that burn looked at," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. He didn't even look at me.

Then they were gone.

I sat on my kitchen floor, surrounded by spilled water and the wreckage of my life, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. He was sending his driver-my fraudulent husband-to take me to the hospital. The irony was suffocating.

"I'm breaking up with you, Alexander Holt," I whispered to the empty room.

He didn't hear me. He was already gone, racing to the side of the woman he truly loved.

I pulled myself up, ignoring the searing pain in my leg, and hobbled to the hospital on my own. I wasn't going to wait for him anymore. Not for a ride, not for an apology, not for a love that had already died.