Chapter 52 The Separation

Chapter 52 The Separation

POV: Elizabeth

The decision to leave came easier than I expected. Or maybe I was simply too exhausted to fight anymore. I packed my apartment in silence while Jessica watched from the couch, still recovering from her injuries. She didn’t try to stop me. She just folded clothes and wrapped dishes in newspaper, the way we used to when we were kids moving between houses.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said quietly.

“Am I?”

“Yeah. You need to remember who you are when you’re not in crisis mode.” She handed me a framed photo of Royce and me from the charity gala—the night before everything fell apart. “But Lizzie, don’t stay away too long. That man loves you.”

I stared at the picture. We looked happy. Unbroken. “I love him too. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

“I don’t know if love is enough,” I admitted, wrapping the frame carefully. “We’ve never been normal together. It’s always life or death, always intense. I need to know who I am outside of that intensity before I can know if we actually work.”

Moving back into my parents’ house felt like both regression and relief. My childhood bedroom was untouched—trophies on the shelves, textbooks gathering dust. Mom needed me. Dad’s suicide attempt had shattered her, and she couldn’t handle hospital visits or paperwork alone. So I became the steady one again, the daughter who held things together while everything trembled.

Dad wouldn’t speak at first. He sat in his hospital room staring at walls, drowning in guilt. The doctors said severe depression, possibly a stress-induced break. Mom told me he kept insisting he had destroyed everything—Jessica’s future, my job, my relationship. I told her it wasn’t true. She said to try convincing him of that.

By the second week, I started therapy. Dr. Nina Patel’s office smelled like lavender and had too many throw pillows. “Tell me why you’re here,” she said gently.

“Because I don’t know who I am anymore.”

She asked who I’d been before all of this. “The responsible twin. The safe one. Predictable.” And now? “Now I’m the woman who got shot, whose sister is a convict, whose father committed corporate espionage.” I laughed bitterly. “I used to be boring. Safe.”

“Trauma changes us,” Dr. Patel said. “We can’t go back. But we can choose who we become next.”

The sessions were slow and painful, but they helped. I processed the shooting, the fear, the chaos. I cried about Jessica. About Dad. About Royce. And gradually, in small, steady increments, I began to feel whole again—not the same, but steadier. Stronger.

Royce respected my space. He never called. Never showed up. But every Monday, white roses arrived with short notes.

Week 1: I’m here when you’re ready.
Week 2: Take all the time you need.
Week 3: You’re stronger than you know.
Week 4: Still here. Still waiting.

I kept the notes in my drawer and reread them on the hard days.

Dad transitioned to outpatient care after three weeks, quieter and medicated. Jessica moved to a medical halfway house by week five, her sentence reduced further. I visited her twice a week. We talked about books and movies instead of prison and betrayal.

By week six, something inside me had settled. I missed Royce—missed his intensity, his certainty. But I had also rediscovered quiet mornings, coffee on the porch, conversations that didn’t revolve around survival. I wasn’t broken. I was rebuilding.

And I realized I didn’t want to run anymore. I wanted to try again. Not because I needed him to survive—but because I chose him.

I dressed carefully the morning I drove to Sterling Corp. Not as the responsible twin. Not as his assistant. Just Elizabeth. My hands shook on the steering wheel the entire way.

Derek at security beamed when he saw me. “Miss Wakefield! We’ve missed you.”

I smiled, nerves twisting in my stomach. I rode the elevator up to the executive floor, feeling like I was stepping into a former life. Royce’s office door was partially open. I heard his voice—and a woman’s laugh.

I pushed the door open.

Royce sat behind his desk, looking sharper, steadier. And perched casually on the edge of his desk was a beautiful woman in an elegant navy dress, auburn hair in perfect waves. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.

They both looked up.

“Elizabeth,” Royce breathed, standing abruptly.

The woman slid off the desk gracefully and extended her hand with a dazzling smile. “You must be Elizabeth. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Sophia Sterling.”

Sterling.

“I’m Royce’s wife,” she added smoothly.

The word hit like a physical blow.

“Ex-wife,” Royce corrected quickly—but too late. The damage had landed.

Sophia’s smile never faltered. “Technically. But we’re reconnecting. Life has a funny way of bringing people back together.”

I felt the air leave my lungs. “You were married?” I asked Royce.

“Ten years ago. For six months,” he said, moving toward me. “It was brief. Completely over.”

“Until Royce called me three weeks ago about corporate restructuring,” Sophia added pleasantly. “I own five percent of Sterling Corp. We’ve been working closely.”

Three weeks ago. While I was healing. While he was sending white roses and notes about waiting.

“You never mentioned you’d been married,” I said quietly.

“It didn’t feel relevant,” Royce insisted. “Elizabeth, it was ancient history.”

“Is it?” I glanced at Sophia, still perfectly at ease in his office. In his space.

She offered to give us privacy but didn’t actually move to leave. The implication was clear—she’d been here, filling the absence I left.

“I should go,” I whispered.

“Elizabeth, please,” Royce said, grabbing my hand. “There’s nothing between us. You’re the one I love.”

“While reconnecting with your ex-wife?”

“I should have told you,” he admitted. “But it truly meant nothing.”

“Six months of marriage isn’t nothing,” I said, stepping back.

Sophia watched us with quiet satisfaction.

“I need to go,” I repeated, pulling away. Royce called after me, but I didn’t stop. I walked down the hallway, into the elevator, out of the building.

In my car, I sat gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe.

Royce had been married. Had an ex-wife who owned part of his company. Who smiled like she still belonged there. And I had walked back into his life thinking he’d been waiting.

My phone buzzed. Royce calling. I declined.

A text followed immediately.

Please let me explain. Sophia means nothing. You’re everything. Please, Elizabeth. Don’t leave again.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, my heart torn between the quiet strength I’d rebuilt—and the chaos I had just stepped back into.