Chapter 8

Emily Johnson would never know why I was so determined to leave her all those years ago.

It was a drizzly evening when she returned, draped in glory, standing at my doorstep and declaring she would marry me.

I stared at the exhaustion barely concealed beneath her flawless makeup, my throat tightening.

The explanations I had buried in my heart for years were finally ready to be spoken.

I had practiced them in front of the mirror countless times.

I would tell her that every cruel word I'd said back then was a lie.

I would make her understand that she deserved the best life—one without a marriage burdened by debt, a mother-in-law drowning in tears, or a husband who might collapse on the operating table at any moment.

But fate loves a cruel joke.

When I finally mustered the courage to find her, the clinking of glasses echoed through the phone.

She drunkenly slurred out the address of a private club before hanging up.

I stood in the rain, gripping my phone for a long time, then finally hailed a taxi.

The club's hallway was a maze.

I peered through glass-paneled doors until I saw her pinned to a couch, kissing a man.

The chandelier's glare stung my eyes as I pushed inside.

"Having fun?"

My voice trembled.

She swayed toward me, champagne breath hot on my face. "I only meant to tease you."

Her manicured finger traced the third button of my shirt. "But seeing how miserable you are… I suddenly felt sorry for you."

Laughter erupted around the private room.

Then, in front of everyone, she announced, "Lucas Thompson, let's get married."

She leaned in, her whisper sharp. "But don't expect me to love you."

The words stabbed like a knife.

I drew a slow breath. "I came here today to say—"

Slap!

The sound cracked through the room.

Her eyes turned vicious. "Shut up! You and your mother are exactly the same!"

She yanked my tie. "This isn't a discussion."

As her crimson lips moved, I suddenly remembered her at seventeen, crouched in an alley feeding stray cats, her eyes bright as stars.

"Oh," she laughed abruptly, "didn't Sophia Williams used to work at Nightfall?"

Her icy fingers brushed my shaking hand. "What if her boyfriend found out—"

I seized her wrist.

She winced but grinned wider. "Can't handle it?"

Her lips, smeared with lipstick, pressed close—metallic with blood. "Lucas, I can be so much worse."

That night, I stood in the club's back alley, rain soaking me as neon lights flickered across her face.

And I realized: some abysses, once fallen into, have no return.

Our farce of a marriage lasted seven hundred and thirty days.

Until one morning, she rubbed her temples, hungover, and said she wanted a fresh start.

I simply handed her the divorce papers—already signed in my name.