"And you," she stepped back, fixed her robe collar. "Once my baby's born, you're done. Used up things get tossed."
She gave me one last look, eyes calm, victorious.
"Understand, Mrs. Visconti?"
She turned, walked to the side door on the grass, pink robe fluttering in the morning light, graceful, like she'd just popped out for air and chit-chat.
Door closed behind her.
I stood on the grass.
Dew soaked my shoes. I didn't move, didn't cry right away. Juststood, feeling something drain from my chest, inch by inch, into an endless pit.
Juliet.
She'd call her mommy.
Forget me.
I took a step.
Foot hit grass, unsteady. I glanced down, kept going. Through the garden, side door, into the manor hall. Light dimmer inside, eyes blurred. I stopped, leaned on the wall.
My mate wasn't my mate. He had another woman. They had a kid.
It all replayed in my head, slow, each piece landing hard, sinking in, marking.
I kept walking.
Hall long. Steps lighter, or floating, like not quite touching ground. Eyes burned. I didn't wipe, just walked, tears streaming. Hall floor blurred in my vision. I didn't stop—if I did, I might not start again.
At the stairs, my legs buckled.
Gripped the railing, paused.
Stomach surged. I closed eyes, swallowed it, deep breath, went up.
Back to the room.
Closed the door.
Curtains drawn, light sliver still there, white, morning, hitting the floor at my feet. I stood in it, feeling empty, so empty the next breath felt cold.
Time to go.
Clear this time. No blurring it with "think more," "wait," or that ridiculous thread I'd hidden for six months, pinned to nothing.
Just—go.
Went to the closet.
Opened it.
Grabbed an empty suitcase.
Started packing.
Hands shook.
