When the call ended, I let myself fall back onto the bed, completely drained. Sleep came after that, but it wasn’t really rest—just long stretches of black nothing pressing against me until morning light cut through and forced my eyes open. I woke up heavier than I had been the night before.

Still, I didn’t stop.

I got up, changed, and went straight to Attorney Delgado’ office. The secretary recognized my name and led me inside without questions. Documents were already waiting—neatly arranged, freshly printed, pushed toward me across the desk.

“This is the initial petition,” the lawyer said in a calm, practiced tone. “Once you sign, we proceed with the filing.”

My fingers shook as I took the pen.

But I still signed.

Then I left.

By the time I got home, the folder was clutched so tightly in my hands that my fingers ached. Every step from the car to the house felt longer than it should have, like the ground itself was resisting me.

When I opened the front door, I saw her.

Chloe.

She was standing in the middle of the living room, right beside the glass display cabinet where Ethan kept his achievements—our lives framed in trophies and polished metal. In her hand was mine.

My award.

Model of the Year.

The one I sacrificed everything for.

She held it carelessly, like it meant nothing at all.

“Oh, sister,” she said sweetly when she noticed me. “You’re back. I was just looking at this little thing of yours.”

Her tone was soft, almost affectionate.

Her eyes weren’t.

I tightened my grip on the folder. “Put it back, Chloe.”

“I will,” she answered lightly.

Then she let go.

On purpose.

The trophy hit the floor with a violent crack, metal bending and glass exploding into fragments across the tiles.

I froze.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Chloe?!” My voice broke as it came out. “That’s mine!”

Something in me snapped forward before I could think. I rushed toward the broken pieces—not toward her—but she shifted, blocking my path like it was a game.

“Move,” I said through clenched teeth.

She didn’t.

So I shoved her aside.

Harder than I meant to.

Chloe stumbled back with a sharp gasp, instantly clutching her shoulder like she had been thrown across the room instead of simply pushed.

“Ow—Clara!” she cried, voice trembling on cue. “Why would you do that to me?”

I stared at her, stunned. “Don’t do this. You broke my trophy. You dropped it on purpose—”

Her lips trembled. Then suddenly, she burst into loud, shaking sobs that echoed through the house like a performance meant for an audience.

And of course—

“What’s going on here?”

Ethan.

The real Ethan came rushing in from the hallway, eyes darting between us. Between Chloe crying in exaggerated pain and me kneeling by shattered glass.

“She pushed me!” Chloe sobbed louder, collapsing into him like she was the one who had been attacked. “I only wanted to see her trophy and she… she hurt me!”

“That’s not true!” I snapped immediately. “She threw it down. She did it on purpose—”

Ethan lifted a hand without even looking at me.

“Enough,” he said sharply.

The word cut me off completely.

His attention went to the broken trophy, then back to me, disappointment hardening his face.

“Clara,” he said coldly, “it’s just an object. You didn’t need to react like that.”

Just an object.

My throat tightened painfully.

That trophy wasn’t just glass and metal. It was years of work—training until my body gave out, starving through casting seasons, pushing through pain and exhaustion while he told me to slow down, to stop, to stay home, to choose him instead of my career. Every sacrifice I made, reduced to just an object.

Before I could speak, Chloe sniffled dramatically.

“I didn’t think she still hated me,” she said softly, wiping fake tears. “I thought we were okay now… but she used to bully me when we were younger.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

“What? I never—”

“Enough,” Ethan cut in again.

That single word shut everything down.

He wrapped an arm around Chloe as if she were fragile glass and guided her toward the door.

“Let’s get you checked,” he said. “That fall looked serious.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, clinging to him. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble… I just wanted us to be close again.”

My chest felt completely hollow.

Ethan didn’t look back at me.

He only glanced once—at the broken trophy, then at me—before leaving with her.

The door closed.

And the silence that followed was suffocating.

I sank down onto the floor.

For a long time, I just stared at the shattered pieces scattered everywhere. Pieces of something I had worked for. Pieces of a version of me I had given up for him.

Because he asked me to.

Because he said he wanted me at home.

Because he said I didn’t need the world anymore.

I picked up a sharp fragment, brushing dust off it with trembling fingers.

Memories came rushing in.

Bright lights. Runways. Applause. My name being announced. That moment the trophy was placed in my hands.

Then his voice over it all.

“You don’t need that anymore. Stay with me. I’ll take care of you.”

I believed him.

God, I really did.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until my cheeks were wet. I wiped them quickly and forced myself to gather the pieces, stacking them on the table like maybe fixing them would fix something inside me too.

While I was still kneeling there, I heard footsteps.

“Love?”

Mason.

The man pretending to be Ethan.

He rushed in, voice breathless with fake concern. “Did she do this to you?”

He reached for my arm. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I would’ve stopped it.”

I opened my mouth, ready to explode—to tell him I knew exactly who he was, that I saw through all of it—but nothing came out.

What was the point anymore?

I was leaving anyway.

So I pulled my arm away and didn’t look at him. “I’m fine,” I said flatly.

He lingered. “Clara, please—look at me.”

I didn’t.

I stayed focused on the broken pieces instead, ignoring the man who kept pretending to be my husband when he wasn’t.

Hours later, the house had gone quiet again.

Ethan still hadn’t come back.

The weight of everything settled deep into my bones.

That was when I finally picked up my phone.

I called my manager.

Her voice came through, surprised. “Clara? It’s been a while.”

I stared at the papers beside me—the divorce documents—before speaking.

“About the project you told me about,” I said quietly. “I’m ready to go back.”

A pause.

“You sure?” she asked carefully. “The terms are strict. No child for three years. Constant travel, training, shoots overseas… it won’t be easy.”

“I know,” I whispered.

Silence stretched between us.

Then I finally said it—soft, steady, final.

“Yes. I accept.”

The hospital lights were too harsh—white, sterile, unforgiving. They made everything feel colder than it already was, like the room itself couldn’t decide whether it was meant for healing or endings.

I lay flat on the examination bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles as the doctor went over the procedure one last time. Her tone stayed steady, detached, professional—something I clung to because I couldn’t afford anything softer.

“This is still your decision,” she said gently. “Once we start, there’s no going back.”

“I understand,” I replied.

My voice didn’t break. Not even slightly.

The baby that was never supposed to be there.

The life that would’ve tied me even tighter to something I was already suffocating in.

A child I no longer knew how to feel anything for—after everything that had happened.

It didn’t take long.

It was over before my mind could fully catch up. And when it was done, there was no rush of emotion waiting for me on the other side.

No sorrow.

No relief.

Just… blankness.

I changed back into my clothes in silence, holding the discharge papers like they belonged to someone else—like I was just carrying proof of something I couldn’t quite accept as mine. Each step out of the hospital felt heavier than the last, the sunset bleeding across the sky in dull orange streaks.

I drove home without thinking. Muscle memory, nothing more.

The moment I stepped inside, warmth hit me first—roasted herbs, butter, something freshly cooked. It was almost disorienting.

Mason—no, the man pretending to be Ethan—was in the dining room setting the table. Wine glasses aligned perfectly. Candles already lit. Soft lighting made everything look almost normal.

Almost.

He turned immediately. “Love, where were you?”

I stopped walking.

He came closer, concern already etched into his face. “You were out all day. I kept calling. You didn’t answer. I was worried sick.”

“I just needed some air,” I said quietly.

That was all I would ever say.

Never the truth.

Never about the baby.

His expression softened like he believed me. “I made dinner,” he said, gesturing toward the table, almost hopeful. “And I got something for you too.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets. “You’ve been talking about this for years.”

The Phantom of the Opera—Live.

Something inside me twisted.

Once, I would’ve been ecstatic. Once, I might’ve cried from happiness.

Now it just felt like something I didn’t have the energy to hold.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I don’t feel well. I want to rest.”

I turned toward the stairs—

“Not feeling well?”

The voice cut through the air sharply.

I froze.

The real Ethan stood at the end of the hallway. Chloe beside him, arms crossed, lips curled in a satisfied little smile.

His gaze landed on me immediately—sharp, controlled, already judging. “Or is it that you just don’t want to see me?” he asked coldly. “Chloe told me you still refuse to even acknowledge me properly, even after I apologized.”

My stomach dropped. “That’s not true.”

Chloe let out a soft laugh. “Oh, Clara, please. Don’t act confused. You clearly don’t want us here. You even tried to hurt me earlier.” She tilted her head. “But it’s fine. We’re family now. Or is it because you still want both twins again like before?”

My jaw tightened. “That’s not what happened. You’re the one who—”

“It is,” she cut in smoothly.

Mason exhaled, irritation flashing across his face. “Chloe, stop. She’s my wife—”

But she wasn’t done.

“You’ve always been like this,” Chloe continued, ignoring him. “So innocent on the outside, but—”

“I only want Ethan,” I interrupted, my voice breaking despite myself. “But clearly… he doesn’t want me.”

Silence dropped instantly.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Ethan stiffened.

Chloe blinked.

And even Mason looked thrown off.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.

Then I turned away.

“Clara—wait.” Mason followed a few steps up the stairs. “What was that just now? What’s going on with you?”

“It’s nothing,” I said without looking back. “I’ll get ready.”

“For what?”

I paused, then finally turned to face him.

“For the tickets. You already bought them. We’re going.”

Something like relief flickered across his face—but I felt nothing.

Not anymore.

Getting ready felt like dressing someone else’s life onto my body. The dress. The makeup. The hair pinned neatly in place. Every movement felt distant, automatic, hollow.

Like I was preparing a version of myself that no longer existed.

Dinner passed like a blur.

Mason tried—he really did. Soft jokes. Gentle words. Small attempts at normalcy. I responded out of habit, not feeling.

Then Ethan and Chloe arrived.

Of course they did.

A “family evening,” they called it.

As if anything about us had ever been a family.

As if pretending could fix what was already broken beyond repair.

The theater was beautiful—crystal lights hanging overhead, deep red velvet seats, gold details everywhere—but I couldn’t take any of it in properly. My chest felt tight. My skin felt too hot. My stomach kept twisting in slow, painful waves.

“Clara?” Mason whispered beside me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded quickly, forcing it.

But halfway through the performance, my body gave up on pretending.

“I… I need air,” I said abruptly, standing too fast.

“Clara?” Ethan’s voice came from behind me, a flash of concern breaking through—but I was already moving.

I pushed past him and hurried out.

The second the cold night air hit my face, my knees buckled.

I bent over and vomited onto the pavement, my whole body shaking uncontrollably. I clung to a nearby pillar, gasping, trying to steady my breathing while the world spun violently around me.

Just breathe.

Just stay upright.

Just don’t fall—

But I couldn’t hold on.

Two figures approached.

“Hey, sweetheart,” one of them said, voice slurred and far too close. “You don’t look so good. Need a hand?”

The other chuckled. “Or maybe some company instead.”

The first reached for me.

I pulled away instantly. “Don’t touch me.”

He smiled like I was joking. “Relax. You’re alone out here. We’re just being nice.”

My heartbeat spiked.

“I said don’t touch me.”

He didn’t listen.

Instead, he grabbed my arm and yanked me closer, breath reeking of alcohol. “Come on, don’t be difficult—”

“Let go!” I screamed.

But my strength was gone.

My legs gave out beneath me.

Everything blurred at the edges, darkness creeping in fast as the ground rushed upward.

And then I fell.

The last thing I heard before everything went silent was running footsteps—

And a voice breaking through the night, shouting my name.

“Clara!”