SEIRRA'S POINT OF VIEW

The car slowed in front of a cute little townhouse tucked away in a quiet street in Long Beach. The sun had dipped lower now, painting the sky in soft orange and pink. The air smelled like salt and peace. For the first time in hours, I could breathe a little.

Bianca turned to me with a soft smile. “This the place?”

I nodded. “Yeah. That’s Becca’s house. She’s… kind of all I’ve got right now.”

Bianca reached for her purse and pulled out a small stack of crisp bills, folded them once, and handed them to me.

I blinked. “Wait—Bianca, no, I can’t—”

She pressed it into my hand. “You’re not taking charity. You’re taking a soft place to land until your wings grow back.”

I swallowed. “Thank you. Seriously.”

She smiled, that calm, expensive kind of smile. “Get some rest, Sierra Morgan.”

I gave a small laugh. “Right. Morgan.”

“You don’t owe him anything anymore. Not even the name.”

I nodded, heart swelling with something between relief and a brand new kind of sadness. “I’ll never forget this.”

Bianca winked. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

Then the car door opened, and I stepped out onto the sidewalk with my bags. I turned back one last time. Bianca gave a little wave before the tinted car glided away, smooth and clean, like her.

I exhaled, turned to the gate, and walked up to the door.

My knuckles hovered a second, then I knocked.

A few beats later, it creaked open—and there she was.

Becca.

Brown curls tied in a messy bun, wearing a huge tie-dye shirt and fuzzy socks, mascara smudged like she hadn’t taken it off in two days. Her mouth dropped open.

“Sierra?” she blinked. “What the hell—what happened?!”

My voice cracked. “Logan kicked me out.”

Her eyes flared, and she yanked me into a hug. My bags dropped, my arms wrapped around her tightly.

“I knew that man was trash. I knew it,” she mumbled into my hair. “But you—oh my God, are you okay? Did he hurt you again?”

“No,” I whispered. “Just… broke me a little.”

We pulled apart, and she looked at my face—mascara streaks, dried tears, puffy eyes.

“Come in, come in,” she said quickly, dragging me and my bags inside. “Wait, how’d you even get here?”

I wiped my face. “A woman helped me. Bianca Brown.”

Becca froze mid-step. “Bianca Brown?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Becca’s eyes widened. “As in the billionaire beauty icon Bianca Brown? The woman with the yacht named Freedom?”

“Yup,” I said, exhausted.

Becca stared at me like I had grown a halo. “Girl, you left Logan Hart this evening and you’re already rubbing elbows with the queen of glow-ups? This is fate.”

I laughed, tired but real. “Yeah, it’s wild.”

“Wild?” she said, grinning. “It’s divine intervention. You’ve been upgraded by the universe!”

She nudged me toward the guest room. “But first—go lie down. You look like you’ve wrestled with life and lost.”

I laughed again. “I feel like it.”

She pulled back the covers and gestured. “Rest. We’ll talk more after you’ve eaten and slept for ten years.”

I dropped onto the bed, the weight of everything hitting me all over again—but this time, it wasn’t crushing. It was just… real.

And somehow, in the chaos of it all, I was finally safe. So I slept off..

The scent of bacon and buttermilk pancakes dragged me out of sleep like a warm hand pulling me gently from the weight of darkness.

My head still hurt. A slow, dull throb settled right behind my eye. My neck was stiff. My arms, my legs… they still carried the soreness from last night. From his fists. From all the nights before this one.

But the ache in my chest? That one stayed the same. It never left. It was just… there. Constant. A hollow.

I blinked, trying to adjust to the soft morning light streaming through the sheer white curtains in Becca’s living room. She’d thrown a comforter over me sometime in the night. A real one. Soft. Clean. It smelled like lavender and her vanilla body spray.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

And then I heard her heels.

Click. Click. Click.

I looked up and there she was—Becca. Dressed already in her work outfit, like the boss she was. Long black pencil skirt hugging her hips, light blue shirt tucked in, sleeves rolled neatly at her elbows. Her hair was up in the tight bun she always wore when she meant business. She had this no-nonsense look on her face, but when her eyes met mine, it melted.

“Morning,” she said gently, setting a glass of orange juice on the coffee table next to a steaming plate.

“Morning,” I croaked. My voice sounded broken.

She crouched in front of me again, just like last night, and brushed a few strands of hair off my face. “I made you breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, bacon. Toast, too. I didn’t know what you’d feel like, so I made a little of everything.”

My throat tightened.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” she cut me off softly, with a small smile. “You need food." You need warmth. You need to feel like a person again.”

She paused, eyes scanning the bruise around my eye, the small cuts on my lip. I saw the fire flash again in her gaze. The anger. She wanted to kill him. I knew it.

“You going to eat?” she asked.

I nodded slowly.

“Good. The tea’s still hot. I put the painkillers right next to the plate.” She stood, smoothing down her skirt. “I’m heading to work, but I’m just a call away. Literally. My phone stays in my pocket all day.”

I watched her walk toward the door, grabbing her purse and keys. Then she stopped. Turned. Walked right back over to me.

She sat beside me on the couch and took my hand.

“Seirra,” she said, voice softer now. “It’s gonna be okay.”

I stared down at my hands. They were trembling.

“I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. But it’s over. You’re out. And I’m proud of you. Do you hear me? You got out.”

Tears welled in my eyes, finally.

“You’re safe. And we’ll take it one day at a time.”

I leaned my head on her shoulder and whispered, “Thank you.”

She kissed the top of my head and stood again.

“Eat something, babe. Then shower, take a nap. Watch trash TV. I don’t care what you do today, but just—rest. I got you.”

And then she was gone.

And for the first time in forever, someone actually meant it when they said they got me.

The pancakes were sweet. A little too sweet. But I kept eating.

My legs were curled under the blanket, my hair still stuck to the side of my cheek with dried tears and sweat. The TV screen glowed in front of me, playing one of those movies Becca loved—where the woman rises up, becomes a boss, runs a company, and wears designer heels while stepping on necks. That kind of story.

The lady in the film had this confidence. This fire. She didn’t take shit from anyone. Every time she walked into a room, people looked. Every time she spoke, people listened. She had money. Power. Control.

Everything I didn’t have.

I stared at her, then at myself. I let the fork drop from my fingers onto the plate, half-eaten bacon still there. Something heavy sat in my chest. I couldn’t shake it off.

I got up slowly, limbs aching as I walked to the small mirror hanging near the front door. Becca’s apartment wasn’t huge, but it was neat. Bright. Soft. The kind of place that looked lived in with love. It didn’t match the reflection staring back at me.

I looked horrible.

My eye was bruised purple and yellow. My lip cracked and dry. My skin looked dull, lifeless. My hair was a matted mess of sweat and shame. My shirt was wrinkled, probably still stained from the soup I spilled days ago while begging Logan to just sit down with me—to just see me.

And then I said it.

Out loud.

“Pathetic.”

My voice cracked.

I was pathetic.

Dirty. Poor. Unloved.

I stepped back from the mirror like it was going to slap me. Then I stormed into the guest bathroom, ripped off the shirt, the pants, the stained bra. I turned on the shower as hot as I could take it, and I stood under it like I was trying to burn the past off my skin.

I washed until I didn’t feel the ache in my muscles anymore. Until the sob that was stuck in my throat finally came out. Until my legs gave out and I sat down, hugging my knees as the water poured down on me.

When I was done, I wrapped myself in a towel and walked into the room Becca said I could use. I pulled on a black hoodie and some faded jeans. My old clothes. I didn’t bother opening the suitcase I packed from Logan’s place. The designer dresses. The jewelry. The heels.

What was the point?

I wasn’t going anywhere fancy again. Nobody was inviting me to galas or fundraisers. I wasn’t a wife anymore. I was just… me.

But even being me felt foreign.

Still, one thing stuck in my mind like a splinter:

I couldn’t keep depending on Becca.

I couldn’t keep eating her food, using her power, showering in her bathroom like a stray dog. She wasn’t just giving me space—she was giving me a second chance at breathing. And I didn’t want to waste it.

I needed to get a job.

I needed to do something.

But who would even hire me? Looking like this. Feeling like this.

And if I’m being honest—I didn’t even want to leave the house. I didn’t want to face anyone. Not with these bruises. Not with this shame.

But what choice did I have?

I had to live. Somehow.

SEIRRA’S POINT OF VIEW

It started with a knock.

A slow, deliberate knock.

I froze.

Sitting on Rebecca's couch, curled in her blanket, a bowl of cold mac and cheese in my lap. Not even hungry—just filling the silence.

Then it came again.

Three sharp pounds. Thunder on wood.

My heart rammed my chest.

No. Please no.

Was it him?

Becca said I was safe here. She swore.

But what if Logan found me?

I crept to the window, pulled the blinds with shaking fingers—and there it was.

A Silver Audi.

His Silver Audi.

And in front of it… two men in black suits. One holding a briefcase.

My stomach twisted.

My legs moved before I could stop them, carrying me to the door. I didn’t want to open it. But not knowing felt worse.

I opened it.

And there he was.

Logan Hart.

Looking flawless.

Like he hadn’t shattered me into a thousand pieces just nights ago.

Same slicked-back hair. Same cold, dead eyes. Same twisted smirk.

“Logan…” I whispered. “Please. Don’t make me go back. I—I can’t.”

He chuckled. A low, cruel sound.

“Relax,” he said. “You’re not coming back.”

I blinked. “W-What?”

He nodded at the man beside him. The guy stepped forward and tossed a stack of papers at my feet.

They scattered across the porch.

I stared at them, heart hammering.

“What is this?” My voice cracked.

Logan stepped closer. “A gift.”

I shook my head slowly. “What do you mean?”

He smiled. Cold. Lazy. Like this was a game.

“Divorce papers, sweetheart. Signed and sealed.”

He tapped the page with his ring finger. “Congratulations. You’re finally free.”

I bent, picked them up with trembling hands.

His signature was right there. Ink black and final.

“I can’t believe you did this,” I said. “After everything?”

He tilted his head. “Believe it or not, baby…”

He laughed, short and sharp. “I’m done playing husband.”

“But you said you’d never let me go.”

He shrugged. “People change. Or maybe I just got bored watching you beg.”

I flinched.

One of the men held out a pen.

I looked down at the papers. No emotion. No apology. Just terms, clauses, and the death of something I once believed in.

I signed.

Hands shaking. Vision blurred.

The men grabbed the documents and stepped back. Logan turned, already walking toward his car.

“That’s it?” I called. “That’s how it ends?”

He paused, one hand on the door.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want this too,” he said. “I just gave it to you first.”

Then he slid inside. Engine roared.

And he was gone.

Silence poured over the porch.

I collapsed, the blanket slipping off my shoulders. The divorce papers crushed in my grip. My heart felt like glass—cracked in places I didn’t know existed.

I’d begged for this moment. Prayed for it.

But now that it was real… it felt like drowning.

He didn’t love me. He didn’t even hate me.

He just wanted me gone.

And that hurt worse than the bruises.

I sat there, tears slipping down my cheeks.

I didn’t know who I was anymore. Not Logan’s wife. Not the broken girl from before. Just... empty.

But deep inside, something stirred.

A flicker. A whisper.

You’re free now.

Not strong yet. Not healed. But free.

And maybe that was enough to start over.

“I won’t be the victim again,” I said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll pray. I’ll fight. I’ll find myself again.”

I wiped my face, gripped the papers tighter.

This was the end.

And maybe—just maybe—the beginning too.

The sound of the engine faded.

I sat there, on the porch, clutching the divorce papers. My fingers curled so tightly around them, the edges cut into my palm—but I couldn’t let go.

Not yet.

Not when everything felt this final.

The door creaked open behind me.

“Seirra?”

Becca.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

She stepped out, barefoot and in pajamas, eyes wide. “Why are you out here? It’s freezing—”

Her gaze dropped to the papers in my lap.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is that…?”

I nodded slowly. “He came.”

Becca knelt beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. I didn’t realize I was crying again until her thumb brushed a tear from my cheek.

“He gave me the papers,” I said, voice hollow. “Didn’t even come in. Just tossed them at me like trash.”

Becca didn’t speak. Just held me tighter.

“He really did it,” I whispered. “He signed them, Becs. No fight. No argument. Just… done.”

She pulled back, looked me in the eye. “That man was poison. You know that, right?”

I managed a weak nod.

“But it still hurts.”

“Of course it does.” She helped me up. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

I let her guide me back to the couch. The blanket was still there, still warm. Everything was the same. And yet, I wasn’t.

Becca handed me a cup of tea. I didn’t remember her making it, but I held it anyway.

She sat across from me, legs folded beneath her. “So… what now?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You’re free. That’s something.”

“Yeah. It just doesn’t feel like it yet.”

She gave me a soft look. “Well, you’re not going back to him. That much I know. You’ll stay here as long as you need.”

“Thanks,” I whispered.

Becca tilted her head. “So, tell me. What do you want to do now? What are you good at—besides cleaning up after a man-child?”

I laughed, broken and quiet. “I don’t know…”

“Come on. There must be something. Everyone has a thing.”

I stared into my tea, thinking. Then slowly, a memory surfaced—warm and distant.

“Well,” I began, “when I was younger, before I met Logan… I went to this really good school. Learned a bunch of stuff.”

Becca leaned in. “Like what?”

“Web design. Graphics. A bit of coding.” I smiled faintly. “I loved it. I used to stay up all night tweaking designs, learning HTML, playing with Photoshop.”

Becca’s eyes lit up. “Girl, are you serious? That’s huge!”

I blinked. “It is?”

“Uh, yes! Do you know how many people make real money doing that stuff? Freelancing, designing websites, even teaching!”

I shook my head. “I haven’t touched a laptop in years.”

“So what? It’s like riding a bike. You never really forget.”

I stared at her. “You think I could actually… work again?”

“I think you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for,” she said. “And honestly? It’s time you start building something that belongs to you.”

The words sank deep.

Something that belonged to me.

Not Logan. Not his world. Not his control.

Mine.

A slow breath filled my lungs.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll try.”

Becca grinned. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

I looked down at the papers on the table.

Final. Cold. But maybe… freeing.

SEIRRA'S POINT OF VIEW

The onions sizzled in the pan, and I blinked back with the sting on my eyes.

“Damn onions,” I muttered.

Becca laughed from beside me, “Blame the onions, not the trauma, huh?”

I cracked a tired smile. “Both sting.”

She nudged me with her elbow. “You’re doing better though. It’s been a week, Sie. A full week.”

“I know.” I stirred the sauce slowly. "Feels like a blur… but I’m breathing again. Even if it still hurts.”

Becca grabbed the salt. “You watched that film I told you about?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Made me cry like a baby. But it made me feel seen too. Like… maybe I’m not insane.”

“You’re not. You’re healing,” she said softly. “One day at a time.”

“Some days I feel strong,” I whispered, “Other days I still wait for the sound of his car.”

Becca was quiet for a second. “You’re allowed to feel both.”

The silence lingered, comfortable.

Then she grinned. “But seriously… this pasta better be as dramatic as your love life.”

I laughed, full and real for the first time in days.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t end in flames.”

“You know you’ve been here for some weeks now, right?” Becca said, her eyes flicking toward me from the kitchen counter.

I looked up from my laptop, the familiar blue screen glowing on my face. I had a half-finished landing page on the screen, something for a skincare brand I honestly didn’t care much about—but it paid. That was all that mattered right now.

“Yeah,” I murmured, stretching my neck. It ached from sitting all day hunched over. “Feels like a blur.”

Becca nodded, her blonde curls bouncing as she stirred something in the pot. The smell of garlic and butter floated through the air and made my stomach grumble a bit. She always knew how to make food feel like comfort. I didn’t even notice how much I’d missed that.

“I just love that you’re doing something for yourself now,” she said, her voice soft but proud. “This web designing thing? It fits you.”

I blinked slowly, nodding. “I guess.”

Truth is, I poured everything into web designing not because I wanted to become some tech genius overnight—but because I needed something to drown in. Something that wasn’t Logan. Something that didn’t remind me of bruises or broken promises.

Designing websites felt safe. Logical. Structured. Clean.

Unlike my life.

The first few days were hard—my hands would tremble over the keyboard, and my eyes would sting from crying mid-project. But I pushed through. I took courses, begged for jobs in freelance groups, stayed up when Becca slept. And somehow, I got a few gigs. Nothing big, just enough to help Becca out with groceries, the WiFi bill, random things.

It felt good.

Contributing.

Not feeling like a leech.

“I’m just glad I’m not dead weight anymore,” I said under my breath.

Becca dropped the spoon she was holding. “Hey! Don’t ever say that.”

I gave her a tired smile.

“You’re not dead weight. You’re my best friend. You’re healing. And you’re contributing, which I appreciate, but even if you weren’t—I’d still want you here, okay?”

I bit down on my lip and nodded. It felt nice to be seen.

She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and sighed dramatically. “Now, I need your help.”

“With?”

“I’m having a very, very important guest over tonight. Like, very influential, can’t-afford-to-mess-this-up kind of important.”

I raised a brow. “Like… politician important or sugar daddy important?”

She laughed. “Ugh, shut up. Neither. Just important. You’ll see. But I want to cook something good, something fancy.”

“Need help with the food?”

“Of course. You’re not escaping that.”

I smiled for real this time.

Maybe it wasn’t a big win—but it felt good. Helping Becca. Building something. Existing outside of Logan’s world.

Even if I didn’t know what tomorrow held, right now, I had purpose.

And it was enough.

The night air was cooler than usual, and the soft hum of Becca’s air diffuser filled the quiet house. Everything looked spotless—she made sure of that. The living room smelled like vanilla and cinnamon, and she even brought out that glass dish she never lets anyone touch, just to serve the damn sauce.

I stayed at the dining table, my laptop open like always. My fingers moved quickly over the keys, finishing up a project for some jewelry boutique. Becca had done her makeup, put on perfume, and even brought out wine glasses. Me? I was in an old hoodie and leggings with my hair loosely tied back. I didn’t really care. Guests weren’t my thing. I was just trying to stay out of the way.

Then the doorbell rang.

I glanced at the time. 7:02 PM.

“He’s here,” Becca whispered, then smoothed her dress and walked over to the door like a perfect hostess. Her heels clicked against the tiles as she opened it, and I couldn’t even lie—the man who stepped in actually looked like something out of a rich people catalog.

Tall. Clean-cut. Well-shaved jaw. A black suit that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. His SUV was still parked outside, sleek and tinted, sitting there like it owned the damn street. The way he walked in, confident and calm, made the air shift a bit.

Becca welcomed him warmly, her voice soft and sweet. I could hear her giggle a little, doing her thing. I just stayed focused on my screen. I didn’t even realize he’d moved until I felt his presence right next to me.

I froze a bit.

Then slowly looked up.

He was watching me. Not in a creepy way—more like curious. Intrigued.

“You do design?” His voice was deep, smooth. Like one of those expensive radios.

I blinked a few times. “Uh, yeah.”

He leaned a little, scanning my screen. “That’s impressive. Which company?”

I shrugged lightly. “I work from home. Freelance… clients online. I just started not long ago.”

He hummed, clearly impressed. “Well, you’re talented.”

“Thank you,... uh Sir” I said, still surprised he was talking to me.

He looked over at Becca for a moment, then back at me. “You know… I’ve got a friend who’s looking for someone to build a site for his fashion brand. He’s willing to pay a good amount too.”

My brows lifted slightly. “Really?”

“I’ll recommend you. If you’re interested.”

“Of course I am,” I said before I could even stop myself.

He smiled, gave a small nod like it was already settled, and then stepped back. Just like that.

I sat there, stunned.

Becca winked at me from across the room and mouthed, told you.

I looked back at my screen. My heart was beating just a little faster. For the first time in a long time, something was happening. Something outside of pain, outside of survival.

All I could do now was wait.

And hope this opportunity would be the one that changed everything.