Clarissa POV

“I don’t know how you stomach that pathetic excuse for a woman. She walks around like she matters. God, I’d die if I ever had to live like her.”

That voice. I didn’t need to guess. Sasha. The same voice I’d heard whispering through hotel phone lines. The same high-pitched laughter I’d heard echoing in my bathroom two weeks ago.

He seems to like this particular slut. She's been the only mistress he's repeated. The other women had always been a one time thing.

I pressed my back to the cold wall outside the bedroom door, holding my breath and listening to them.

“She’s nothing,” Nicho’s voice came through, “A walking corpse. No passion, no spark. Just a name on paper and a face I can barely stand. I told her to stop coming in here.”

I exhaled slowly. So this was today’s insult. A new version of the same truth I’d lived with for seven years. This marriage? A farce. A goddamn contract signed with ink, silence and utter disrespect.

Still, it stung. More than usual. I pushed open the bedroom door like I wasn’t even surprised and I wasn’t. The sight hit me like a movie I’d seen one too many times.

There they were. Nicho and Sasha, limbs tangled, bare skin on full display, like they were posing for an erotic magazine cover.

He didn’t even flinch when he saw me. He didn’t bother to reach for a sheet.

“You’re disgusting,” I said calmly, stepping fully into the room.

Sasha gave me a slow, smug smile. “Oh, look. The ghost speaks.”

I ignored her. My eyes stayed on Nicho. “Seven years, Nicho. Seven years of this circus.”

“You weren’t invited in here,” he said, eyes narrowing. “How many times do I have to tell you? Stay the hell out.”

Then he stood up. His hand moved so fast, I barely had time to flinch. He gave me a stinging sharp slap. I staggered back a little .

Sasha gasped but she was smiling. She enjoyed the show.

“Don’t ever walk into my room again,” he growled.

My cheek throbbed, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I straightened up, adjusted my shirt, and turned my back on both of them.

I walked down the stairs like I hadn’t just been slapped. Like I wasn’t dying a little on the inside. The bar in the corner of the living room called to me like it always did on nights like this.

I poured myself a glass of whatever was closest, whiskey, maybe? Didn’t care. Just needed the burn. I needed it to push down the anger bubbling in my throat.

I barely had one sip when my phone started buzzing on the counter.

I stared at it. Nicho’s name flashed on the screen.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, swiping to answer.

“What?” I snapped.

“She’s hungry. Go make something for Sasha.”

I blinked. “You want me to cook for your mistress?”

“She’s my guest,” he said coldly. “You’re still my wife. Do your damn job.”

I let out a short laugh. Not the amused kind. The kind that happens right before someone snaps. “Go to hell, Nicho,” I said, and hung up.

I slammed the phone face-down on the marble.

What kind of man did that? After cheating, after hitting me—he wanted a meal made for his side chick by me?

I stared at the whiskey in my glass, but the buzz was gone. My hand was shaking, not from fear, but rage. Pure, white-hot fury.

How had I survived seven years of this?

Seven years of being spoken to like I was the help. Seven years of being ignored, insulted, cheated on—and always expected to smile and shut up because the contract said so.

The contract. The damn contract. The golden leash around my neck.

I signed it. I knew what I was getting into. But I didn’t know it would feel like this. I didn’t know I’d come to hate him so thoroughly, so deeply, I could barely stand to hear his name in my own mind.

My hand clenched around the glass. I wasn’t some weak, crying little wife.

No. I’d swallowed his bullshit long enough. And something about today, maybe it was Sasha’s smug little smirk, maybe it was the slap, snapped something in me.

Because I wasn’t going to just survive the rest of this marriage. I was going to make damn sure Nicho regretted every single second he spent underestimating me.

Let him enjoy his little mistress. Let him laugh with Sasha now. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He thought I was weak?

He was about to meet the real Clarissa.

Few minutes later, I was still nursing the alcohol, letting it burn a path down my throat while the ice clinked lazily in the glass. The silence in the house felt fake—like the calm that came before a hurricane.

And right on cue, I heard heavy footsteps stomping down the staircase.

I didn’t look up, I already knew who it was.

“Clarissa,” Nicho barked, his voice already coated with venom. “I told you to get your ass up and cook. She’s waiting.”

I swirled the liquid in my glass, “And I told you to go to hell.”

His steps halted behind me. I could feel the heat of his anger without even turning around.

“What did you just say?”

I turned my head lazily, locking eyes with him. “You heard me. I’m not cooking. I’m not serving. I’m not playing wife to your whore. I’m done with your shit, Nicho.”

He crossed the space between us in seconds. The glass slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor as his hand flew to my neck, pinning me back against the bar. His grip was tight, but I didn’t flinch. I just stared at him.

“Don’t test me, Clarissa,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “You’re bluffing. You won’t last a day without me.”

I stared him dead in the eye and then God help me—I laughed. A low, bitter chuckle that rose from somewhere deep in my chest.

“Is that what you think?” I rasped through his grip. “That I’m too weak to leave you? That I need you to survive?”

His eyes flickered for just a second—hesitation, maybe. Or surprise.

I pried his hand off my neck, one finger at a time. “You’re not a god, Nicho. You’re just a spoiled, insecure little boy who thinks money equals power. But let me tell you something—money doesn’t make you a man. And you? You lost me a long time ago.”

He opened his mouth like he had something to say, but no words came out.

I stepped back, brushing glass shards off my clothes.

Clarissa POV

I sat on the edge of the couch, rubbing my throat gently. His grip had been tighter than usual tonight. My fingers traced the tender spot just under my jaw, where his thumb had dug in. The ache pulsed with every breath I took, raw and sharp like a bruise blooming beneath the skin.

The sound of his footsteps faded up the stairs, and only then did I allow myself to move. I stood up slowly, carefully, ignoring the shards of glass at my feet, and walked to my bedroom.

I flicked on the light and walked straight to the vanity mirror. My breath caught in my throat the moment I saw myself.

Red. Dark red smudges. Angry-looking prints shaped like fingers.

I tilted my chin slightly and leaned in closer.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered under my breath.

I grabbed my phone and snapped a photo. The flash lit up the room, highlighting the mess of my emotions I was trying desperately to keep buried. Then, without a second thought, I sent the photo. My hand shook a little as I hit send, but my jaw was locked tight.

No name saved. No words exchanged. Just evidence.

And then, I pulled out my suitcase from under the bed, the wheels scraping against the wood. I didn’t even bother to fold my clothes. I just tossed them in. Underwear, jeans, my black silk dress, a pair of boots, my charger, the folder with my documents. The bare minimum, but just enough for the meantime.

I was reaching for my passport when the door creaked open.

Ugh. It was Sasha.

Leaning against the doorframe in one of my robes, a smug little grin painted across her lips. Her eyes scanned the room like she owned the place, and I swear she even wrinkled her nose like my scent offended her.

“Well, well,” she purred. “Did I finally push you too far, wifey?”

I didn’t answer. I preferred to ignore her than exchange words.

She stepped further into the room, her heels clicking dramatically on the hardwood floor. “Packing already? You’re not even going to say goodbye? That’s rude. After everything we’ve shared?”

I clenched my jaw and continued packing but she kept going. “You know, you could’ve just admitted you were never good enough for him. I mean, look at you. Still pretending you matter. That’s really cute.”

I turned and gave her a long, cold stare. “Is this what you do, Sasha? Pick fights with women whose husbands you’re screwing?”

She chuckled. “Not just screwing, darling. He loves me. He actually tells me I’m beautiful. Can’t say the same for you, huh?”

I paused, my hand hovering over a pair of jeans. Her words cut deeper than I wanted to admit. But I swallowed it. Swallowed it all. Until I couldn’t.

I straightened up and walked to her, stopping only inches away. “You will always be nothing but a mistress,” I fired back in a low tone. “No matter how many times he takes you to bed. No matter how many silk robes you steal from me. You will never be more than his side piece. His backup plan. His dirty little secret.”

Her smirk faltered. But only for a second. “Let’s see how that goes,” she said, tilting her head. And then without warning, she let out the most dramatic, high-pitched scream I’d ever heard.

I blinked, confused. “What the hell—?”

She started yelling Nicho’s name like she was being stabbed. She even dropped to the floor, grabbing her ankle and groaning like she was auditioning for a daytime soap opera.

“What are you doing?” I asked, genuinely baffled.

Then I heard Nicho’s footsteps pounding down the stairs like a bull charging into a fight.

Perfect. Exactly what she wanted.

He burst into the room, shirtless, eyes scanning the scene like a madman. “What the hell happened? Sasha, are you okay?”

“She—she pushed me!” Sasha wailed, pointing at me like a scared little bunny. “I came in to talk and she attacked me!”

I blinked again. I couldn’t even laugh.

“She’s lying,” I said, calmly.

But Nicho didn’t even look at me. “Sasha, don’t cry,” he cooed, crouching next to her like she was some precious porcelain doll. “You’re okay now. I’m here.”

And then he turned to me, “What the hell is wrong with you, Clarissa? I told you to stop coming at her. She doesn’t deserve this.”

I scoffed. “You want to talk about what someone deserves? You want to talk about how I came running to you when my brother got wrongfully arrested for drug possession?”

His face darkened.

“I begged you for help,” I continued, “and you didn’t lift a finger until you gave me a condition to marry you before you help me. Let’s not rewrite history now.”

He stood up slowly, his hands curled into fists. “I saved you from your trashy life. I gave you a new life. You were nothing before me. Nothing. I picked you up off the streets.”

“Right,” I snapped. “Not because you’re kind or noble. But because you’re a manipulative son of a bitch who loves power. You helped me because you saw someone weaker than you and that turned you on.”

He took a step toward me, but I didn’t flinch.

“You’ll regret saying that,” he warned.

“No,” I said, my voice flat. “I won’t.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Did you forget?” I asked, crossing my arms. “The contract ends in two days. I’ve played this pathetic game of house with you for seven years. Seven! And for what? My brother still died. You didn’t save him. You just trapped me here with your lies and threats.”

I walked over to my suitcase and zipped it up slowly, deliberately. Then I looked back at him.

“Two days,” I said. “And I’m done. For good.”

I opened my drawer, pulled out a thick cream-colored envelope I’d been saving for this exact moment, and held it up.

With one flick of my wrist, I swung it toward him. It landed on the floor at his feet with a soft thud.

“There,” I said, my voice icy. “In case your memory’s as bad as your temper.”

Nicho looked down at the envelope like it might explode. He didn’t bend to pick it up. He just stood there, his chest was heaving, his jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

“You kept a copy?” he asked.

Clarissa POV

“Of course I did,” I snapped. “I may have played your wife, but I’m not stupid.”

Sasha, who was still sitting dramatically on the floor like a wounded deer, looked between us like she’d missed a crucial plot twist.

“That envelope,” I said, stepping closer, “has every clause, every signature, every disgusting little term you shoved down my throat seven years ago. And it expires in two days.”

Nicho’s eyes locked with mine. No more shouting. No more rage.

While Nicho and Sasha both watched me in disbelief, I pi led my phone up and dialed Dante's number. Dante had been my friend since childhood and he knew every single things I've been through.

He hated how we lost contact and we only got in touch a few years after I and Hudson got married. He always hated he wasn't there to help and prevent me from getting married to a soulless man.

The phone barely rang twice before Dante picked up.

“Cass?” He called out calmly.

“I need you,” I said to him with a firm tone. No tears, no shakiness. “Now.”

“I’m already on my way,” he replied, no questions asked. That’s just who Dante was always showing up without asking why.

I ended the call and sat on the edge of my bed, the box beside me was half-packed with clothes. My fingers trembled a little as I folded the last sweater and placed it on top. That tiny motion felt like rebellion. Like breathing for the first time after being underwater too long.

Five minutes later—maybe less—he knocked once and let himself in. That’s how tight we’d always been. He had been waiting for this moment since forever.

Dante stepped in like he belonged there. He was more than ready to out Nicho in his place if he tried anything funny. His hair was a mess, like he’d run his fingers through it five times before getting to me. Still smelled faintly like citrus and woodsy cologne. It was comforting, not overbearing.

“Where’s the bastard?” he asked, eyes scanning the room like he was ready to swing.

“Upstairs,” I muttered, grabbing the handle of my box. He got to it first, lifting it like it weighed nothing.

Nicho had left to his room with Sasha because he believed I wasn't bold enough to leave.

“Of course he is,” Dante muttered. “Cowards love elevation.”

A small, ridiculous smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. That was Dante—always ready with a joke, even when everything around me was burning.

We headed toward the door. I heard Nicho come down the stairs. He must have heard movement in the house and realize I was really leaving. I didn’t give the house a final glance. I’d already mourned what could’ve been. I paused only once, just to give him the line I knew he needed to hear.

“Make sure you sign the divorce papers when the contract expires, Nicho,” I said without looking back.

Nicho stood at the top of the stairs, shirt undone, eyes wide. Like I’d slapped him. He didn’t move. He just… stared. Like I’d grown wings and fangs all at once.

Yeah. That’s right. Stand there and watch me leave. I think what rattled him most wasn’t what I said. It was that I finally had the guts to say it. That for once, I wasn’t begging, crying, or asking why. I was just… done.

Dante opened the car door for me. A black SUV, the engine was still running, like he came ready to whisk me away from a heist. I slid in, and he closed the door.

“Are you alright?” he asked once we pulled out of the driveway.

I exhaled. “I will be.”

Dante nodded, keeping one hand on the wheel. “You didn’t tell me he was choking you, Cass.”

“I didn’t tell you a lot of things.” I stared out the window, not really seeing the trees blur past. “I didn’t want you to get into trouble.”

He stayed quiet for a moment. Then, “You’ve always protected everyone but yourself.”

That made something sharp twist in my chest. It wasn’t even an accusation. It was just… truth. The drive wasn’t too long. Thirty minutes, maybe. But it felt like I was being driven into a whole new life. One that didn’t have Nicho’s shadow in it.

We pulled into a quiet neighborhood tucked away from the chaos. Simple buildings. Brick walls. A few potted plants on porches. It was safe, hidden, and perfect.

“Apartment 2B,” Dante said as he parked. “I didn’t get you anything fancy. Just quiet. Secure. Lease is in your name.”

I looked over at him, and for the first time that night, let some of the gratitude show on my face. “Thank you, Dante. For all of this. For showing up.”

“You never have to thank me, Cass. You’ve had my back since we were kids. I’m just trying to return the favor.”

He got out first, lifted the box again, and led the way up the stairs. I followed behind, each step feeling a little lighter.

The apartment was small, but it was mine. Pale walls. A clean couch. A kitchen with just enough space for one person to breathe. There was a faint smell of lemon cleaning spray, he must’ve come earlier to get it ready.

“This place smells like you,” I said, smirking.

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let you walk into dust and dead roaches. Thought I’d scrub the sadness out of it a bit.”

“Mission accomplished.”

He dropped the box on the floor and straightened up, brushing his hands against his jeans.

“I stocked the fridge,” he added casually. “Just essentials. Milk, eggs, water, three kinds of chocolate, and a bottle of that soda you used to sneak into my backpack in middle school.”

I laughed. Actually laughed. It was quiet and unexpected, like my voice wasn’t sure if it was allowed to feel joy again.

He turned serious then. “You’re gonna be okay here. You don’t have to rush anything. Just breathe. Eat. Sleep. Let yourself exist without fear.”

“I haven’t done that in a long time,” I admitted, voice cracking slightly.

“Well, start now.”

I moved to the window and peeked outside. Streetlights. A parked bike. No chaos. No screaming. No Nicho.

“I want to start over,” I whispered, mostly to myself. “But I don’t know who I am without him.”