Chapter 3: Goodbye, Mrs. Caldwell

The woman opened her mouth, stammering but silent. Maybe she was happy, or maybe she’d just never expected me to give up so easily.

The guests erupted. It was as if a dam burst—whispers, texts, people craning for the best view. The gold bracelet was a symbol of Mrs. Caldwell’s status, and handing it over was as public a resignation as you could make.

Even Ethan’s assistant was stunned. He stared, then said, “Lauren, please—if you walk out now, Ethan won’t let this go.”

I smiled faintly, my thoughts spinning. My smile felt brittle, almost detached, like I was watching myself from far away.

I’d been Ethan Caldwell’s fiancée since I was twenty-two—five years of public appearances, silent dinners, and the scent of unfamiliar perfume on his shirts. Every holiday brought a new apology gift. I never argued. I perfected composure, remembering my mother’s warning: Never let them see you fall apart.

I thought if I stayed, if I was patient, Ethan would see my worth. But the contempt in his eyes only deepened. Until today, when he answered a FaceTime call and left, not caring it was my birthday. That’s when I knew I had to let go.

In his heart, there was only the girl in the video. The clarity hurt, but it was freeing. For the first time, I didn’t care who was watching.

I looked at Ethan’s assistant. “No, Ethan’s very busy. He doesn’t have time to be angry with me.” My voice was steady, even as I trembled inside.

I called the housekeeper, managed a smile, and asked her to help with the guests. Then I went upstairs. The stairs creaked, the house cold and empty. I paused by the studio—paints dried up, window shades dusty, the air thick with turpentine and lost dreams.

The studio looked abandoned. Ethan called it my ‘mess,’ but it was the only place I ever felt like myself. I remembered the day, a month after our engagement, when he came home reeking of whiskey. Ethan’s grip on my arm was tight, his breath sharp with whiskey. My paintbrush clattered to the floor, blue streaking across the wood. "Don’t imitate her. You’ll never be her," he spat. The words rang in my ears long after he left.