“I’m agreeing to your marriage offer now,” I said into the phone, my voice barely steady. “Just… hurry up and pick me.”

There was a pause. Then a deep, confused voice replied on the other end, “You’re agreeing now? After rejecting it before? What about Clinton?”

“I’m divorcing him,” I said firmly. “So if you still want to marry me, come pick me up after one week.”

I hung up before I could hear his response.

My hand trembled slightly as I lowered the phone. I sighed, not from relief—but from exhaustion. My body ached in places I couldn’t name, and my heart felt like it had been stitched together with pins and broken promises.

A soft knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts. A nurse entered, offering me a gentle smile.

“You’re ready to be discharged, Miss Moore. Here’s the last scan from your check-up,” she said, placing a printed image into my hand.

It was the ultrasound of my baby—my last photo with the little soul I never got to meet.

I stared at the black-and-white image. Seven months. I was seven months pregnant when the accident happened. When I lost everything.

And it was Alynna’s fault. My half-sister. We were on our way home. She insisted on driving, even though she was clearly drunk. I told her to pull over. She didn’t listen. Then the headlights came out of nowhere.

Crash. Screams. Blood. Shattered glass.

When I woke up in the hospital, the baby was already gone.

But the worst part? Alynna lied. She told everyone I had been the one driving. That I was the one drunk. That the crash was my fault.

She pinned it all on me. My father didn’t even ask for my side of the story. He stormed into the hospital two days after the crash—red-faced, livid, and full of disgust.

“You’ve humiliated this family again,” he spat. “Your half-sister is injured because of you. Haven’t you done enough damage already?”

Not once did he ask how I was doing. Not once did he mention the baby. Not once did he look at me and see his daughter.

But then again, he never really did. He never loved me. Not even as a child. I was the reminder of everything he hated—of the woman he once married and lost.

He blamed me for my mother’s death. She died in a car accident too, trying to rush home from work when I had a fever. I was only eight, but he never forgave me, even after he married Alynna’s mother who was actually his mistress.

“She wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for you,” he had said once, in one of his quieter fits of anger. “You cursed everything you touched.”

No one stood by me. Not one soul came to ask how I was doing. Not after the miscarriage. Not after the surgery. Not even after I begged someone to call Clinton. But unfortunately, he was busy treating Alynna who was faking her injury.

It was in that silence I knew. I had to leave before they completely ruined me.

I grabbed my small duffel bag, filled with folded clothes and pills I could barely pronounce, and made my way down the hallway of the hospital.

But fate wasn’t finished with me yet. I heard it before I saw them—familiar voices just around the corner.

Alynna and Clinton.

I froze, pressing myself against the wall, heart pounding.

“What about Chloe?” Alynna said, her tone cautious. “She’s going to lose it once she finds out I’m pregnant.”

My breath caught.

“And why would she get mad?” Clinton replied, not even bothering to lower his voice. “Our baby died because of her. It was her fault you got into that accident and got hurt. He should be thankful that you’re giving me an heir.”

My mouth fell open. I gripped the ultrasound picture in my hand tighter, my nails cutting into the paper.

“Thankfully our baby is safe,” he continued. “And it’s not like I ever loved her.”

“She’s still your wife,” Alynna said, voice laced with something almost mocking. “If you don’t love her, why not just leave?”

“You know I can’t do that yet,” Clinton muttered. “My grandfather hates divorce, and he adores Chloe for some reason. Still don’t know why. Marrying her was a mistake from the beginning. But don’t worry…”

I leaned closer, nausea rising in my throat.

“…at my grandfather’s birthday party next week, I’ll slip something in her drink. Set her up with someone. Then my grandfather will have to believe she was cheating, and I’ll be rid of her for good.”

Laughter followed. Their laughter.

And then Clinton added, “Doctor said you’re already three months, right?”

“Three months,” Alynna confirmed, giggling. “Our little heir.”

I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned, walked down the hall with every ounce of dignity I had left, and stepped into the first cab I could find.

Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t let them fall. Not yet.

I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I’d been avoiding for weeks.

“This is Chloe Rose Moore,” I said when the line picked up.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I want to file for divorce,” I said. “Immediately.”

“I want to file for divorce,” I said firmly, clutching my phone like a lifeline. “Immediately.”

A pause on the other end. “Mrs. Moore… under your marital contract, both parties—especially the families—must be involved. Your in-laws must approve.”

“I don’t care.” My voice didn’t waver. “Just draft the papers and send them to me. Whether they sign or not, I’ll find a way.”

And with that, I hung up.

The silence in the hallway felt heavier after that. I hadn’t even made it to the gates of our home before I already felt like a stranger in it.

The moment I stepped inside, I sensed something had changed. No one greeted me. No one asked how I was. The air was colder, stiffer. My room, the one that had always felt like mine even when nothing else did, had been stripped. The curtains were different. The bedcovers replaced. My dresser was filled with someone else’s things.

Alynna’s. Panic rising in my chest, I opened the cabinet only to find my belongings boxed up and shoved into a corner. Dusty, neglected. As if I had already been erased.

I hurried outside, searching for someone—anything familiar—and stopped short when I saw the maid near the garden, standing beside a small flame. A pile of items fed the fire: old jewelry boxes, yellowed letters, delicate fabrics. Things that looked painfully familiar.

I ran to her. “What is this? What are you burning?”

She turned with a hesitant look. “Miss Alynna said to dispose of the old things from storage… These were marked as ‘unnecessary.’”

My stomach turned. “These belonged to my mother!”

Just then, Alynna appeared behind me, holding another box in her hands. “Oh good, you’re here. I was just about to tell them to burn this one too. Dad said we’re clearing out old junk for the renovations. Sentimental clutter just slows things down.”

I stepped forward, my hands trembling. “That’s not clutter. Those are my mother’s memories. You don’t get to decide what stays.”

Alynna gave me a flat smile. “She’s dead, Chloe. She’s not coming back. And let’s be honest—you were the reason she died, weren’t you?”

The sting of her words landed harder than the slap I gave her.

She gasped theatrically. “Oh God—did you just hit me?”

Clinton appeared then, footsteps sharp, face unreadable. “What’s going on?”

“She slapped me,” Alynna sniffled. “I was just trying to help. Chloe got upset about some old things. I didn’t mean to upset her…”

Clinton turned to me. “What’s your problem? She’s trying to help and you lash out like this?”

“They were my mother’s,” I said, barely able to raise my voice. “And she’s throwing them away like they mean nothing.”

“So what?” he snapped. “She’s gone. We’re moving forward.”

And there it was. The truth, out loud. He had already left me in his heart. Maybe he never truly stayed.

I couldn’t even argue. I was too tired to. Too empty.

But then the memories came rushing in—how it all started. Six years ago. Back when Alynna had left the country for school and left Clinton heartbroken. I had been there, a silent shadow, a friend, someone who offered him comfort when he was drinking and miserable. And in a single, foolish night… everything changed.

He proposed months later, saying he wanted something real. I believed him.

And then Alynna came back. And suddenly I wasn’t enough anymore.

Their affair started slowly—subtle glances, inside jokes. And then it wasn’t hidden at all. She told me herself, over wine one afternoon: “He was mine first. He’ll always be mine. You were just a substitute until I came back.”

I should’ve left then. But I stayed. For the baby. For a love that clearly didn’t exist.

“You’ve caused enough trouble,” my father’s voice boomed from the patio. “After everything, now you’re fighting with Alynna too? Haven’t you done enough?”

His words hit me like another slap. “You’re grounded. Go to your room and stay there. Don’t come out until you’ve learned your place.”

And so I was locked inside.

The hours passed slowly, the silence louder than ever. Laughter echoed from downstairs—the three of them living, celebrating, pretending I never existed.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

A day later, the door creaked open. Alynna stepped in, holding a tray of food. Her smile was cold and victorious.

“Eat up, sister. You must be starving. It’s been a day. You know your place now, right?”

I glared at her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

She tilted her head. “Suit yourself. But Clinton did say you looked pale. Wouldn’t want to worry anyone.”

I hesitated, my stomach churning. But hunger won over suspicion.

Minutes after I took a bite, I started to sweat. My throat closed. My skin began to itch. Then I knew.

Seafood. I was allergic.

I stumbled to the bathroom, clutching the wall, calling for help. No one answered.

I faintly heard Clinton’s voice from the hall. “What’s going on?”

“She didn’t like the food,” Alynna replied calmly. “She was screaming for no reason.”

“What? An ungrateful bitch! You already cook for her and she’d say that? Let’s just leave her and have fun outside.”

The last thing I heard was their voices laughing before everything went black.

I woke up to the sterile white of the hospital ceiling again. The smell of antiseptic was too familiar by now, as if even my lungs had learned to live with it.

A nurse leaned over, gently checking my vitals. “You’re awake,” she said softly, then sighed. “Chloe… this is the third time this month. I really think you should call someone. A family member. A friend? Or should we report this to the police?”

I gave her a faint smile, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “There’s no one left to call. And I’m okay, I’ll handle this myself.”

She hesitated, clearly unsure of how to respond. Then she nodded and quietly excused herself.

As soon as the door clicked shut, I turned to my phone resting on the side table. Notifications flashed across the screen. One, in particular, made my breath catch.

It was a message from Alynna.

There was a photo. A fresh one—Alynna curled up in Clinton’s arms, the two of them smiling like the world hadn’t just shattered around me. Like I hadn't just buried our baby. Like I didn't exist.

A second later, a video followed. I hesitated—my finger hovering—then tapped play.

It was them. In our room. My room.

Alynna giggling as Clinton pulled her close. His hands around her waist. Her lips pressing to his as he lifted her onto the bed. And then—her moaning his name like I never existed.

My throat tightened. My chest felt hollow.

Another message lit up my screen.

“Oops, I don’t think you were supposed to see that. But since you did—sorry. Clinton can’t come today. He’s… busy. With me. Don’t worry. You won’t die from a little food mishap, right?”

I stared at it for a long time. But I didn’t cry.

Not anymore.

Instead, I deleted the message and placed my phone face down. My heart felt strangely light—like it had been emptied out long ago, and now there was nothing left to break.

Moments later, the phone buzzed again. This time, it was from Nathan.

“Everything’s ready. Just give me the signal and I’ll pick you up. No more delays, Chloe.”

A lump formed in my throat.

“I’ll be there,” I typed back.

“You better be,” he replied. “I’m not going to let you waste your life with that man anymore.”

Nathan. The one I once rejected because I thought loyalty to Clinton mattered more than love. The one who waited anyway. The one who offered me an out.

It was time to take it.

Later that day, I was discharged. No one came to pick me up—not that I expected anyone to.

When I returned home, I headed straight to my room, only to find more of Alynna’s things in place of mine. Makeup scattered on my vanity. Her heels in my closet. Like I was already erased from the life I supposedly owned.

But I wasn’t staying long. I just had one final thing to do.

The divorce papers were inside my bag, freshly printed and ready. The only missing part was Clinton’s signature.

And as if the universe heard me, there he was at the dining table, buried under a stack of documents. He didn’t even look up.

“Bring me some coffee,” he muttered. “And sort through these. Just flip them when I’m done.”

I approached slowly, heart pounding, and slipped the divorce papers into the stack. When he reached for the pen, I flipped the page without blinking.

He signed. Just like that.

“Anything else?” he asked flatly.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m not feeling well. I’ll rest after I cook.”

“Good,” he grunted. “Alynna’s craving something spicy. Don’t mess it up.”

I nodded and walked to the kitchen.

No more arguments. No more shouting. Just this one last performance before the curtain dropped on this life.

I chopped the vegetables in silence. The knife hitting the board was the only rhythm left in my heart.

Alynna walked in moments later. She leaned against the counter like she owned the entire house. “You’re still here?” she said, her voice sharp and smug.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to.

“I mean, why?” she pressed on. “Shouldn’t you be gone by now? Honestly, I thought I got rid of you already. You’re like gum on a shoe.”

I kept chopping, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response.

Then she leaned closer and whispered, “Why are you still alive?”

That made me stop.

“I will be gone soon,” I said evenly. “You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”

A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “Good. Be gone before I give him his heir. I don’t want you clinging to our lives like a ghost.”

She turned and walked out, heels clicking against the tile.

But what she didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that I was already gone.

All that remained now was my shadow.