Chapter 3 Trash bags and Goodbyes
They thought I’d sleep through it. That I’d stay curled up, useless, while they erased me from the house piece by piece. But the sound of boxes scraping marble woke me, that sharp rip of tape slicing through silence. I opened my eyes to see two of the servants… people who used to greet me as “Madam”... kneeling on the floor, folding my clothes into brown cartons like they were packing out a stranger’s mess.
And then there she was. Clara. In white silk like she owned the damn sun, standing with her tablet, directing them like a queen addressing her court. Her voice too calm, too polite, too poisonous.
“Please make sure the jewelry is separated. Only what’s under her name in the registry,” she said, without even glancing at me.
Her name.
Her.
My throat burned before I even sat up. “What the hell is this?” I managed, though my voice came out low and dry.
Clara finally turned. That smile… tiny, smug, pity painted over satisfaction. “Ethan thought it’d be easier this way. We didn’t want things to… escalate.”
We.
I didn’t move at first. I just stared at her, taking in every detail. Her hair tied perfectly, a diamond bracelet flashing under the light—too familiar. That bracelet wasn’t hers.
I got up. The room tilted for a second, but I steadied myself on the dresser, forcing my legs to hold me. “You have no right to be here.”
“Oh, Liana,” she sighed, her voice dripping with that fake concern she used to wear when I told her secrets. “I know this is hard, but sometimes love changes, you know? He needed someone who...”
I stepped closer before she could finish. “Someone who what? Someone who could smile while stabbing me in the back?”
Her eyes flickered, but only for a moment. Then she gave that tiny laugh, the one that always meant she’d already won. “I didn’t plan for this to happen,” she said softly. “We just… fell into it.”
I wanted to slap that softness off her face, but before I could even breathe again, another voice cut through the air.
“Enough, Clara.”
Margaret.
Ethan’s mother appeared in the doorway like the ghost of every bad decision I ever made. Dressed in black silk, chin high, looking at me as if I’d tracked mud into her church. She didn’t even bother pretending surprise. “Well, you’re awake,” she said. “Good. Saves us time.”
The servants stopped moving. Even Clara stepped back.
I looked from her to Margaret, waiting for someone to explain why my entire life was being folded into boxes like charity donations.
Margaret’s eyes traveled over me slowly, from my bare feet to the loose shirt I was wearing. “You really should’ve known your place, dear. Some women just aren’t built for men like my son.”
My stomach clenched. “You mean men who cheat?”
She smiled, a small, cruel thing. “Men who evolve. You’ve… softened, Liana. Gained a little here and there. Lost your spark. Ethan needs someone who challenges him, not drains him.”
Every word hit like glass. I didn’t even realize my hands were shaking until one of the boxes slipped off the bed and spilled open. Perfume bottles rolled across the floor, clinking against each other like tiny, dying bells.
Clara crouched down to help, pretending sympathy, but I caught it then… Ethan’s cufflinks glinting on her wrist. The silver ones I bought him for our anniversary.
That was it. That was the bullet. The final shot that cracked everything left inside me.
I stood frozen for a moment, feeling something inside me split in half. Then, without a word, I started pulling my own clothes out of the boxes. The servants hesitated, glancing toward Margaret.
Margaret gave a short laugh. “Don’t embarrass yourself, girl. He’s already signed the transfer. You’ll get what’s due to you.”
“What’s due to me?” I repeated quietly. “You think I care about money?”
Margaret tilted her head, lips curling. “Then you really have nothing left.”
She walked out, satisfied. Clara followed her with her perfect posture, leaving the scent of her perfume behind, sweet and rotten.
I wanted to scream. To break every vase in that cursed house. But my voice got stuck somewhere between my ribs and throat. So instead, I sat on the edge of the bed and started folding what was left… my way. My order.
By the time I was done, I had two suitcases. That was all my marriage had become. Two goddamn bags.
I didn’t even hear Ethan come in. I just felt the shift—the silence change shape, like the air remembered who owned it.
He stood by the door in his tailored suit, hands in his pockets, eyes empty. He didn’t look tired. He didn’t look angry. Just… done. Like I was a meeting he’d already rescheduled twice.
“You’re still here,” he said simply.
I stared at him. “Where exactly would you like me to go, Ethan? You’ve already given my room away.”
He sighed, like I was being unreasonable. “Don’t make this ugly, Liana. I told you it’s over.”
“So that’s it?” I laughed, bitter. “Five years of marriage, two miscarriages, building your empire beside you… and it’s just...over?”
He didn’t blink. “You’ve changed. You’re not the woman I need beside me anymore.”
That same line again. Like he’d practiced it in the mirror.
I took a step forward. “No, Ethan. You mean I’m not the woman who’ll stay quiet anymore.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. He turned instead to the nearest servant. “Make sure her bags are sent to the gate. Security will take care of the rest.”
“Ethan..”
He didn’t even look back. Just walked away, his footsteps echoing through the hall like the closing credits of my life.
I didn’t follow. I couldn’t. There was nothing left to say.
When security came, they didn’t touch me roughly. They didn’t have to. The humiliation was its own weight, heavy and choking. Margaret stood at the top of the stairs, arms crossed, watching like she was finally witnessing justice.
And Clara…oh, Clara… she was on the balcony. Leaning on the rail, arm hooked around Ethan’s. Smiling. Like she’d never known guilt, only victory.
I didn’t look away. I wanted her to see my face. To remember it. Because one day, she’d see it again. And I wanted her to know what she’d built her happiness on.
When the gates closed behind me, I was drenched in nothing but silence. No pity. No audience. Just me, my bags, and a road that didn’t want to look back.
I started walking. Each step felt heavier than the last, but I kept going. I didn’t know where, but anywhere was better than standing in that house that smelled like betrayal.
My heels dug into the mud, my breath sharp, my chest tight. I stopped once to catch it, pressing a hand against my stomach, and there it was—a strange pull, deep and warm. Painful but alive.
Maybe it was grief. Maybe something else.
But for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel like breaking. I felt… aware. Raw. Awake.
They thought they threw me out like trash. But I wasn’t done. Not yet.
I adjusted the straps of my bag, straightened up, and kept walking—slow, steady, stubborn. Each step a promise that one day, they’d regret ever letting me leave standing.
And maybe one day, I’d even thank them for it.