Chapter 3

Amelia's POV

At six in the evening, the sun sank below the Manhattan skyline, casting long orange streaks across the hardwood floor.

I tied up the three black garbage bags and dragged them one by one into the service elevator at the back.

I hurled the remnants of three years of my life into the metal dumpster in the alley. The lid clanged shut.

My palms were dusty, but my shoulders felt lighter than they had in years.

I went back upstairs, sat on the empty sofa, and unlocked my phone.

I opened social media and found an account I'd discovered months ago: "Blake Cross Studio."

Just five minutes ago, it had a new post.

The photo was taken from the passenger seat of Damian's Audi.

The dashboard clock read 5:15 PM.

Outside the window, the Hudson River shimmered in the golden sunset.

In the bottom right corner, Blake's manicured hand held a pastry box tied with the signature blue ribbon of that famous Broadway patisserie.

On the center console next to the box lay Damian's black watch, the one I knew so well. His hand rested casually beside hers.

The caption read: "Some people always know how to cheer you up after a long flight. Seven years, and he still brings the only dessert worth my attention."

I stared at the photo.

It was the exact patisserie Damian had promised to stop by for me that morning.

He hadn't been trapped in any emergency project review.

He'd spent the entire afternoon driving Blake around the city, buying her favorite desserts, playing the loyal knight.

I remembered how I'd first found Blake's social media account.

Last winter, Damian left his tablet on the kitchen island without locking it.

A shipping notification popped up: an expensive, handcrafted emerald cashmere scarf was out for delivery.

Three weeks later, at Christmas, Damian gave me a scarf.

Same emerald green. Same cashmere.

I'd thought it was a thoughtful gift—until I saw Blake's post from London. She was wearing the exact same scarf, with a caption: "Even across the ocean, he knows green is the color that brings out my eyes."

Damian had bought two.

One for the woman he adored. One for his live-in housekeeper.

I looked around the living room.

The throw blanket was emerald.

The dinner plates had olive-green rims.

Even the hand soap in the bathroom was eucalyptus and pear.

Every preference Damian had imposed on this apartment wasn't his own. It was a perfect replica of Blake Cross's taste.

For three years, he'd sculpted me into her shadow, using my face and my body to build a safe, domestic shrine to the goddess he couldn't touch.

A cold, heavy feeling settled in my stomach, but not a single tear fell.

My grief had long since dried up, replaced by absolute, bone-deep clarity.

At 11:30 PM, the front door lock clicked again.

Damian walked into the foyer.

His hands were empty.

No pastry box. No mention of the lemon tarts he'd promised.

Instead, he faintly smelled of floral perfume and expensive gin.

He walked past the dining table, undoing his cuffs.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked around.

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Did the cleaner come today?" he asked, staring at the bare countertop.

"Where did the throw pillows go? And the fruit bowl?"

I leaned against the sofa arm, smiling calmly at him.

"I threw them out," I said flatly.

"They were old and dusty. I decided to declutter."

Damian frowned, studying the bare coffee table.

"You threw out the pillows? Those were custom, weren't they?"

"They're just fabric," I said, my voice without inflection. "Things wear out. If they're useless, they just take up space. Better to throw them out and have some peace."

He stared at my face for two seconds, but I wore an unassailable, composed smile.

He shrugged it off, writing it off as a woman's whim.

"Whatever. It looks cleaner this way anyway."

He sat down at the other end of the sofa, loosened his collar, and tapped his knee thoughtfully.

"By the way, Amelia," he said, feigning casualness.

"You used to do embroidery and hand-sewing, right? Do you still?"

"Sometimes," I said.

"Can you make me a vintage embroidered hoop? You know, the kind with retro botanical patterns stitched in gold thread."

He pulled out his phone and started scrolling.

"Someone at the office wants one as a souvenir. You're good at this. Can you finish one by next week?"

I didn't need to look at his screen.

Two days ago, Blake had posted a set of vintage Victorian embroidery hoops on her public feed, with the caption: "The new studio walls need something like this. Too bad all the good artisans are fully booked."

He wanted me to spend hours hand-sewing a gift for the woman he loved, so he could pass it off as his own and win her favor.

The audacity was breathtaking.

"Sure," I said, looking him straight in the eye.

"I'll make it for you."

A flicker of guilt crossed Damian's face, but selfish relief quickly took over.

"Thanks," he said, awkwardly patting my shoulder.

"I'll send the design details to your email."

He stood up and walked straight into the study to message her again, completely unaware that in every way that mattered, I had already left his world.