Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Lily's eyes went wide. The blood drained from her face.

"Julian. Don't you dare."

"Watch me."

His gaze was glacial — something in it she'd never seen before. He stepped toward her, and before she could react, he raised one hand and delivered a sharp, precise strike to the side of her neck.

Pain. Darkness. She collapsed.

…

When she came back to herself, she was lying on pavement.

Cold concrete beneath her. The sounds of the city rushing in — traffic, voices, the mechanical drone of everyday life.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, head screaming, limbs barely cooperating.

And then she saw them.

White papers everywhere. Scattered across the street, caught on railings, plastered to parked car windows, blowing along the gutters. A strange snowfall in the middle of the city.

She reached for the nearest one.

It was her.

No clothes.

Julian had kept those photographs — ones she'd allowed him to take, because he'd said they were just for him, just for them. She'd trusted him.

Now they were everywhere.

"Oh my God, who is that…"

"Pretty though. Why would you let anyone photograph you like that…"

"Look at the one over there, the pose she's in…"

"God, if someone recognised her — how could you live with yourself…"

The words hit like darts. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed for the papers, but someone was always faster — curious hands snatching them up, and then comes the look, the slow recognition.

"Hey — isn't that you? In the photo?"

Something detonated inside her. Shame, rage, helplessness, despair — a wave she couldn't outrun. She turned and ran, stumbling, lurching toward anywhere with fewer people.

But there was no escape. The photographs were on every surface. Bins, bus stops, shop fronts, car bonnets, lampposts. They were everywhere she looked.

She collected them desperately, fingers shredding on paper edges, blood welling from cuts she didn't feel. But for every handful she gathered, the wind blew in more.

She couldn't stop shaking.

She took out her phone and called the number she knew by heart.

It rang.

He answered.

"Yeah?"

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Only a fractured, pressurised silence, and underneath it, the sound of someone breaking.

"Lily?" His voice sharpened slightly. "You've seen the photos?"

She bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper. Said nothing.

"That's what happens when you mess with Scarlett." His voice went cold, deliberate. "Remember this. Don't touch her again."

"Julian." She found her voice at last. It came out wrecked — scraped raw, barely a voice at all. "I hate you. I hate you—"

A pause on his end. Brief.

Then, flatter: "Do whatever you like. Just stay in line from now on."

Click.

Gone.

She dropped to the pavement, phone pressed against her chest, the cold from the ground crawling up through her entire body. All around her, those white papers kept drifting, slow and merciless, and people kept looking.

One humiliation at a time. Like being cut in fine, precise strips.

Then her phone rang again.

She didn't recognise the number at first.

Attorney Hartley.

"Ms. Ashford. I wanted to let you know — all divorce proceedings have been completed. Both certificates have been couriered to your address, as requested. Please expect delivery."

She stared at the screen.

The words took a moment to assemble themselves into meaning.

Then, like a swimmer breaking the surface after too long underwater, something lit up behind her eyes.

She got to her feet.

She moved. Then she was running — not caring about the ache, not caring about the photographs still fluttering past her, not caring about the stares.

She ran all the way back to the house.

On the coffee table in the entryway: a courier envelope.

She tore it open with shaking hands.

Inside: two small burgundy booklets.

Divorce Certificate.

She stared at the words for a long time. Long enough that her vision went blurry.

Then huge, silent tears dropped one by one onto the cold paper, spreading into dark circles.

She took one booklet and held it as carefully as something irreplaceable. The other she pressed into Margaret's hands as the housekeeper hurried in, bewildered.

"Margaret — give everyone the day off." Her voice was quiet but certain. "And when Mr. Sterling comes home — give him this."

She turned before Margaret could ask anything, and went upstairs.

She went to the bedroom. Dragged a suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe — already packed, waiting.

Then she stood in the living room and looked at the house Julian had designed for her, detail by detail. Every choice deliberate. Every corner a promise.

I'll make this the warmest home.

It'll be full of memories, for the rest of our lives.

Now there was only cold furniture and a broken past.

She went to the kitchen and took out a lighter.

From the utility room, she found a bottle of spirits, still sealed.

She unscrewed the cap and poured — across the sofa, across the rugs, across the curtains.

Then she stepped back to the doorway.

Flicked the lighter.

Lily stood in the doorway, watching the flames catch and climb, feeling the wave of heat press against her face.

Then she turned around.

She picked up her suitcase, walked through the front door, and didn't look back.

Behind her, the fire found its voice.

She raised her arm at the kerb.

A cab slowed.

"Airport," she said.