Chapter 3
The papers arrived at 6 AM. Luca's lawyer was efficient — I'd give him that.
I signed every page without reading the financial clauses. I didn't want his money. I didn't want his properties. I didn't want a single thread connecting me to him.
I was packing my last bag when my phone rang. Not Luca — his head of household staff, Margaret.
"Mrs. Castellano, the gala is tonight. Your gown is being pressed—"
"I won't be there," I said. "And it's Ms. Ward now."
Silence.
I hung up and zipped my suitcase. Three years of life with a billionaire, and everything I truly owned fit into one bag.
I walked through the penthouse one final time. Past the custom Italian kitchen where I'd cooked meals he never came home for. Past the living room where Bianca had lounged last week, drinking wine from crystal glasses while I stood in the doorway like a servant.
On the dining table, I left the signed divorce papers, my wedding ring, and a single note:
*My mother's name was Helen. She was 63. She liked gardening and old movies. She died alone in a hallway because you gave her bed away. I hope the merger was worth it.*
Then I walked out.
The elevator doors were closing when a hand shot through.
Bianca.
She was dressed in silk pajamas — clearly she'd stayed the night in the guest suite. Again.
Her eyes dropped to my suitcase, then to my bare ring finger. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"Leaving so early?" she said, her voice honey-sweet.
I said nothing.
"You know," she continued, stepping into the elevator beside me, "I always admired how long you lasted. Most women in your position would have broken much sooner."
The elevator descended. My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored walls — hollow-eyed, pale, thin. I barely recognized myself.
"Luca never loved you, Evelyn." Her voice was soft, almost gentle, like she was explaining something to a child. "You were convenient. A contract. A warm body for his episodes." She tilted her head. "Did he ever tell you that he proposed to me before he met you? I said no because I wasn't ready. You were always just... the placeholder."
The elevator hit the lobby. The doors opened.
I stepped out without a word. I didn't owe her a reaction.
"Oh, and Evelyn?" she called after me.
I didn't turn around.
"I'm pregnant. With his baby."
My steps faltered.
"Eight weeks. We're announcing it at the gala tonight." Her voice carried across the marble lobby, bright and triumphant. "I thought you should hear it from me first. Woman to woman."
Something cracked inside me — the last hairline fracture in a bone that had been breaking for months.
But I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
I kept walking. Through the lobby, past the doorman, onto the street where no car was waiting for me. For three years, I'd never had to call a cab. Now I stood on the sidewalk with my single suitcase and hailed one like a stranger in my own city.
As the taxi pulled away, I looked up at the penthouse — the glass tower that had been my gilded cage.
Then I did something I should have done three years ago.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called since the day I signed Luca's contract. A number my mother had made me memorize before her mind started to fade.
It rang once. Twice.
A deep male voice answered. "...Evelyn?"
"Grandfather," I said, my voice steady for the first time in years. "I'm coming home."
I signed every page without reading the financial clauses. I didn't want his money. I didn't want his properties. I didn't want a single thread connecting me to him.
I was packing my last bag when my phone rang. Not Luca — his head of household staff, Margaret.
"Mrs. Castellano, the gala is tonight. Your gown is being pressed—"
"I won't be there," I said. "And it's Ms. Ward now."
Silence.
I hung up and zipped my suitcase. Three years of life with a billionaire, and everything I truly owned fit into one bag.
I walked through the penthouse one final time. Past the custom Italian kitchen where I'd cooked meals he never came home for. Past the living room where Bianca had lounged last week, drinking wine from crystal glasses while I stood in the doorway like a servant.
On the dining table, I left the signed divorce papers, my wedding ring, and a single note:
*My mother's name was Helen. She was 63. She liked gardening and old movies. She died alone in a hallway because you gave her bed away. I hope the merger was worth it.*
Then I walked out.
The elevator doors were closing when a hand shot through.
Bianca.
She was dressed in silk pajamas — clearly she'd stayed the night in the guest suite. Again.
Her eyes dropped to my suitcase, then to my bare ring finger. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"Leaving so early?" she said, her voice honey-sweet.
I said nothing.
"You know," she continued, stepping into the elevator beside me, "I always admired how long you lasted. Most women in your position would have broken much sooner."
The elevator descended. My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored walls — hollow-eyed, pale, thin. I barely recognized myself.
"Luca never loved you, Evelyn." Her voice was soft, almost gentle, like she was explaining something to a child. "You were convenient. A contract. A warm body for his episodes." She tilted her head. "Did he ever tell you that he proposed to me before he met you? I said no because I wasn't ready. You were always just... the placeholder."
The elevator hit the lobby. The doors opened.
I stepped out without a word. I didn't owe her a reaction.
"Oh, and Evelyn?" she called after me.
I didn't turn around.
"I'm pregnant. With his baby."
My steps faltered.
"Eight weeks. We're announcing it at the gala tonight." Her voice carried across the marble lobby, bright and triumphant. "I thought you should hear it from me first. Woman to woman."
Something cracked inside me — the last hairline fracture in a bone that had been breaking for months.
But I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
I kept walking. Through the lobby, past the doorman, onto the street where no car was waiting for me. For three years, I'd never had to call a cab. Now I stood on the sidewalk with my single suitcase and hailed one like a stranger in my own city.
As the taxi pulled away, I looked up at the penthouse — the glass tower that had been my gilded cage.
Then I did something I should have done three years ago.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't called since the day I signed Luca's contract. A number my mother had made me memorize before her mind started to fade.
It rang once. Twice.
A deep male voice answered. "...Evelyn?"
"Grandfather," I said, my voice steady for the first time in years. "I'm coming home."