Amelia POV:

Blake' s grip was like iron, twisting my arm, sending a fresh wave of pain through my still-healing body. He shoved me back, hard, against a marble pillar. The impact jarred my teeth, and a sharp pain shot up my spine. My head throbbed, blurring my vision for a moment.

"Mad?" I choked out, pushing myself upright, my eyes burning with unshed tears and unbridled fury. "You call me mad? You destroyed my garden, orchestrated my miscarriages, gave my children's names to your bastard sons, and now you desecrate my last memories with that witch!" I pointed a trembling finger at Chyna, who was now sobbing theatrically, cradling the screaming baby. "You are a monster, Blake Hodge! A cold, calculating monster! I despise you! I wish I had never met you!"

The words, raw and venomous, ripped from my throat, fueled by years of suppressed pain and the sting of his ultimate betrayal. Every lie, every carefully constructed facade he had built, crumbled in that moment. There was no going back.

He stared at me, his face a mask of disbelief, then a sickeningly familiar coldness settled in his eyes. A flash of something like hurt, quickly replaced by a chilling detachment. He had always been so careful to maintain his image, his perfect exterior. My outburst, my raw honesty, had shattered it. And he hated me for it.

Tears, hot and unstoppable, streamed down my face. I was spiraling, losing control, but I didn' t care. This was the truth, finally unleashed. With a primal scream, I lunged at him, clawing, hitting, desperate to inflict even a fraction of the pain he had caused me.

He easily fended me off, his strength far superior to my weakened state. He held my wrists in one hand, pinning me against the pillar, his face inches from mine. "You are truly disturbed, Amelia," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "This violent outburst, this irrational hatred... The guru was right. You are plagued by dark spirits. You need cleansing."

Chyna, ever the opportunist, sniffled dramatically. "Oh, Blake, she needs help. For the sake of the boys, she needs to be purified."

His eyes, cold and hard, met mine. "Indeed. It's for your own good, Amelia." He snapped his fingers. "Guards! Take her. Prepare the silent room. Summon Father Michael. She needs an exorcism."

Exorcism. My blood ran cold, a fresh wave of terror washing over me. He was going to put me through another "spiritual cleansing," another ritual of torment.

Two burly guards appeared, seizing me roughly. They dragged me through the mansion, my protests muffled by their heavy hands. I fought, screamed, kicked, but it was futile. They were too strong, too many.

They took me to a secluded wing of the house, a windowless room with thick, padded walls. Father Michael, a stern-faced man in dark robes, stood waiting, flanked by several of his disciples. He regarded me with a look of pity mixed with stern conviction.

"Child," he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, "you are troubled. Your soul is restless, your heart consumed by bitterness. The evil within you must be expelled."

"There's no evil within me!" I cried, struggling against the guards. "There's only pain, etched there by your master!"

He shook his head, his eyes unyielding. "Denial is the first symptom of deep spiritual affliction. Prepare her."

The disciples moved in, powerful hands restraining me. They forced me onto a stone slab in the center of the room. I thrashed and screamed, but it was useless. They were relentless. Father Michael chanted in a language I didn' t understand, his voice rising in intensity. Then, a foul-smelling liquid was forced between my clenched teeth. Holy water, he called it. It burned my throat, making me choke and gag.

The ritual was an endless nightmare. They stripped me, leaving me exposed, humiliated. They lashed me with thin, willow branches, chanting prayers with every whip, claiming to beat the evil from my flesh. My skin stung, then bled, then went numb. I closed my eyes, trying to dissociate, to float away from the searing pain, the utter degradation. I was barely conscious, my body a canvas of crimson welts.

Then came the fire. They dragged me, half-dead, from the slab. The floor glowed, a bed of incandescent coals laid out before me. Father Michael' s voice boomed, "Walk, child! Walk through the cleansing fire! Let the flames burn away the demonic influences!"

I screamed, a raw, animal sound, as they forced my feet onto the scorching coals. The pain was beyond anything I had ever imagined, a searing, all-consuming inferno that raced up my legs, through my entire body. I writhed, tried to pull away, but their grip was unyielding. My mind snapped, a desperate self-preservation mechanism. I felt my consciousness recede, detaching from the agonizing reality, until only a faint, distant echo of pain remained.

When it finally ended, I was a husk. My body, a roadmap of burns, lashed skin, and bruises. I was vaguely aware of being lifted, carried away. The silent room, the chanting, the excruciating pain-it all blurred into a horrific memory.

I awoke in a hospital room, once again. But this time, it was different. No dramatic entrance from Chyna. No cold pronouncements from Blake. Just the hushed efficiency of nurses, their faces etched with concern. My body was a mass of bandages, my head a throbbing symphony of pain. I was utterly alone.

A notification buzzed on the hospital-provided tablet, left on my bedside table. It was from Blake. A terse, impersonal message: "Your purification is complete. May your spirit find peace. The guru sends his regards."

Then, another notification. Chyna's social media. A picture of her and Blake, smiling, holding the twins. "So grateful for our beautiful, harmonious family," the caption read. "The negative energies have finally been expelled."

My fingers, trembling slightly, moved across the screen. I found Blake's profile. Block. Then Chyna's. Block. My last act of defiance, a quiet severing of ties. The notification then popped up: "Your divorce is finalized." It was dated days ago. The pre-signed document, my last hope, had been used.

That night, I found a small lighter and a metal waste bin in my room. With painstaking effort, I gathered every photograph, every card, every tangible memory of Blake and our life together. I watched them burn, the flames consuming his deceiving smile, his empty promises, his twisted love. Each flickering ember was a piece of my past, turning to ash.

The next morning, I bought a one-way ticket to the farthest place my meager savings could take me. A random destination, anywhere away from here. As the plane lifted off the tarmac, leaving behind the glittering skyline of New York, I closed my eyes and whispered a silent prayer: May I never see him again.

Blake POV:

The familiar scent of incense and old leather filled the guru's meditation chamber, usually a balm to my restless spirit. But today, it offered no solace. My mind kept drifting, replaying Amelia's furious face, her accusations. You are a monster, Blake Hodge! Her words, raw and venomous, still burned in my ears.

"Blake, my son," the guru's voice, silken and resonant, cut through my thoughts. "Your focus is fragmented. The energy around you is disturbed." He gestured towards my phone, which I had been clutching beneath my robes. "Your attachment to earthly distractions hinders your spiritual progress."

I quickly put the phone away, a flicker of irritation, then shame, washing over me. I had been checking it constantly for Amelia's replies. But there were none. My last message, a curt notification of her discharge and my "blessing" for her spiritual peace, remained unread. A strange, hollow feeling settled in my chest. She always replied. Always.

"Forgive me, master," I murmured, bowing my head. "My mind is... unsettled."

He merely nodded, his eyes piercing. "The true path is rarely easy, my son. The universe tests us. Your future, your destiny, is now manifest. Embrace it."

Embrace it. I looked across at Chyna, who sat demurely beside me, holding Orion, who was fussing softly. She looked tired, but radiant. She was the one. The destined one. The mother of my heirs. So why did I feel this persistent, nagging unease? Why did Amelia's furious, heartbroken face keep intruding on my meditations?

"Blake?" Chyna whispered, her voice soft, concerned. "Are you alright? You seem... distracted."

I forced a smile, pushing down the unsettling tremor in my gut. "Just contemplating the guru's wisdom, my dear. The path is long." My own words felt hollow even to me.

Why did I feel this way? I had everything I had always wanted. The twin sons, the secure lineage, the beautiful, compliant Chyna. Amelia was a problem, a source of negative energy, now thankfully removed through a necessary (though perhaps overly zealous) cleansing. My life should be perfect. Yet, there was this void, this nagging absence that refused to be filled.

Orion began to cry, a sharp, piercing wail that broke through the solemnity of the chamber. Chyna looked flustered, trying to hush him, but his cries only grew louder. She looked up at me, her eyes wide and helpless. "Blake, I... I don't know what's wrong with him."

A wave of impatience washed over me. I took the baby from her, rocking him, awkwardly trying to soothe him. As I held the tiny bundle, his cries slowly subsided. I looked down at his face, so innocent, so small. He was a Hodge, my son. Yet, a strange thought, unbidden and unwelcome, crept into my mind. He was so tiny, so fragile. So unlike the robust, healthy babies Amelia had almost carried. The babies I had...

I shook my head, horrified by the thought. What was I thinking? This was destiny. This was perfect.

"You know," Chyna said softly, interrupting my unsettling thoughts, "Amelia mentioned something disturbing before she left. She said... she said she might take some of your personal belongings. Precious things. Out of spite, I suppose. I only just remembered. I hope she didn't take anything too important." Her eyes were wide, innocent, but a subtle cunning glinted within them.

My blood ran cold. Amelia. Taking my things? Out of spite? It had to be a fit of pique, a final, childish tantrum. She wouldn't truly leave. Not Amelia. She was grateful, dependent. She loved me. She was simply lashing out because she couldn't accept the guru's divine will. She was playing a game, trying to get my attention. She would realize her mistake, come crawling back.

"She won't take anything," I said, a cold certainty in my voice. "She's just angry. She'll come back." I immediately called my estate manager. "Do not allow Amelia into the house. She is not to take anything without my explicit permission. She is acting irrationally."

A strange calm settled over me. Amelia was just being difficult. She would return. Then, I would forgive her, gently guide her back to her place, and perhaps, eventually, she could even be allowed to teach the boys about her roses. The thought, unexpectedly, brought a flicker of warmth to my chest.

I spent the next few days with Chyna and the boys, cutting myself off from the outside world, immersing myself in the illusion of my perfect family. We spent hours in the temple, offering prayers, seeking blessings. I even asked the guru to consecrate a special charm, a small, intricate locket, for Amelia. A token of forgiveness, a silent invitation to return. I imagined her surprise, her relief, when she received it. She would understand. She would see that I still cared, that I was willing to bring her back into the fold, albeit on my terms.

I imagined her tears, her apologies, her gratitude. My anger, I told myself, was fading. I was even prepared to overlook her violent outburst. After all, the guru had said her spirit was troubled. I would be magnanimous. I would save her.

Finally, feeling a sense of benevolent compassion, I reactivated my communications. I opened my phone, expecting a flurry of desperate messages, perhaps even a tearful voicemail. My finger hovered over her contact. Nothing. No messages. No missed calls. No sign of her.

My heart pounded, a sudden, inexplicable dread seizing me. This wasn't right. This wasn't Amelia.

Blake POV:

The blank screen of my phone stared back at me, mocking my carefully constructed composure. No texts, no missed calls, no desperate pleas. Nothing. It was impossible. Amelia always contacted me, even after our most trivial disagreements. She was dependent on me, she loved me. She couldn' t just disappear.

A cold sweat broke out on my brow. Perhaps my phone was malfunctioning. I checked the network, rebooted the device. Nothing. The horrifying truth began to dawn, a cold, sickening realization. She wasn't contacting me because she didn't want to.

No. This was a game. A stubborn, childish act of defiance. She was trying to make me miss her, to make me chase her. My jaw tightened. Fine. Two could play at that game.

I furiously dialed her number, my finger shaking with a mixture of anger and a growing, unsettling fear. I would set her straight. I would remind her of her place, of her obligations, of the fate that awaited her if she truly dared to defy me. I would tell her, in no uncertain terms, that this charade had gone on long enough.

The phone rang once, twice, then a robotic female voice cut through the silence. "The number you have dialed is not in service."

My blood ran cold. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the expensive marble floor. Not in service. My ears roared, a deafening white noise filling my head. My body stiffened, a paralyzing shock gripping me. She had changed her number. She had truly cut me off. She had blocked me.

A surge of white-hot rage, pure and unadulterated, consumed me. No one defied Blake Hodge. No one. I snatched up the phone, ignoring the cracked screen, and immediately dialed my head of security, Marcus.

"Find her!" I roared into the phone, my voice raw and unhinged. "Find Amelia Levine! Now! Bring her back!"

Marcus, usually unflappable, hesitated. "Mr. Hodge, she's... she's not in the city. We tracked her phone's last signal to the airport. She's gone."

Gone. The word echoed in my mind, hollow and terrifying. "Don't be ridiculous, Marcus! Where would she go? She has nothing! She's just hiding. Find her!"

"Sir, she purchased a one-way ticket, paid in cash," Marcus continued, his voice grim. "She boarded a flight to... to an unknown international destination. We've tried to trace her, but she used burner phones and cash. She's covered her tracks completely."

My mind reeled. International? Burner phones? Amelia? The quiet, unassuming Amelia? This was impossible. "Why wasn't I informed?" I snarled, my voice vibrating with barely contained fury. "Why was I not told she was leaving?"

Marcus sighed, a sound of heavy resignation. "Sir, I tried. Multiple times. But you had given explicit instructions not to disturb you or Ms. Hatfield. You were deeply immersed in your spiritual retreat, and your personal assistant had relayed specific orders not to interrupt you for any reason unless it concerned the twins. Ms. Hatfield also reiterated those orders, sir."

Chyna. My head snapped up, a dawning horror twisting my gut. Chyna had kept me from knowing. Chyna had orchestrated this. She had encouraged my isolation, my blind faith, knowing Amelia was slipping away. She had played me.

I slammed the phone down, ignoring Marcus's continued presence on the line. I raced out of my office, a dark fury propelling me forward. I sped through the city streets, ignoring traffic laws, my mind a maelstrom of confusion and rage. She was playing a game, a very dangerous game. She would regret this. She would come back. She had to.

I burst through the front doors of the mansion, my security detail scrambling to follow. "Where is she?" I roared, grabbing the nearest guard by his lapels. "Where is Amelia? What did she take?"

The guard, pale and trembling, stammered, "Sir, your instructions were... she was to be prevented from taking anything. But she came back while you were... unavailable. She insisted she had a right to her belongings."

"And you let her?" I snarled, my grip tightening.

"She had the divorce papers, sir. Signed by you." He managed to choke out. "She said she was legally ending the marriage, and she had the right to collect her property. Our orders were to prevent theft, but if she was lawfully dissolving the union..."

Divorce papers. The blank document. A symbol of trust, I had called it. A cruel, ironic twist of fate. I had signed my own freedom away. My own foolish arrogance.

I released the guard with a shove, my body trembling with a mixture of rage and a chilling despair. I stalked through the house, my eyes scanning the rooms. The master suite, now completely redecorated in Chyna' s gaudy taste, still felt empty. I walked into Amelia' s former study, the room filled with her calming presence. And then I saw it. The faint scent of smoke, the scorch marks on the carpet near the metal waste bin.

I stared at the bin, a cold dread creeping into my heart. I remembered the estate manager's report about the destruction of the garden. A detail I had dismissed as Amelia's irrationality.

A horrifying realization dawned. She hadn't left a message. She hadn't taken anything of mine. She had destroyed her own. My mother's roses. Her own paintings. All of it. She had burned her past. She had burned us.

A wave of nausea washed over me, a physical manifestation of the gut-wrenching pain. My chest tightened, a suffocating weight pressing down on me. She was gone. Truly gone. And I had driven her away. My empire, my legacy, my perfect life-it all felt hollow, meaningless without her.

Just then, Marcus, my head of security, rushed in, looking even more grim than usual. "Sir! I just remembered something. When Amelia left the hospital, she gave a message to one of the junior nurses. She told her, 'If Blake ever truly wants to understand what he lost, tell him to ask his mother.'"

My mother. Kyleigh. The matriarch. A cold, hard gleam entered my eyes. This wasn't over. Not yet.