A price to pay

A price to pay

CATHERINA’S POV

The moment I stepped into my room, the air felt different. Heavy, thick with memories I had tried so hard to lock away. I closed the door softly behind me, letting the faint click echo in the silence, and then I sank against it.

It all came rushing back. The night a year ago when William had made promises that now tasted like ash on my tongue. I could see it clearly, every laugh, every touch, every word that had been nothing but a lie.

The wedding night.

He had picked me up as soon as the music faded into quiet, his arms strong around me. I remember the way my dress had brushed against his chest, the glitter of the chandelier catching in his hair. He had lifted me effortlessly, placing me on his shoulders as if I weighed nothing, as if I were something fragile he was meant to protect.

“Hold on tight,” he had said, his voice low and warm against my ear.

I had laughed then, a wild, unrestrained sound that startled even me. The room felt enormous, the crystal lights spinning like stars above our heads, and I had felt invincible in that moment.

I had run. Around the house, barefoot, my silk dress swaying, spinning into the halls like I was a child again. William chasing me, laughing with a lightness I had believed was real. My hands had gripped the walls for balance, and I could feel the heat of him close behind, his presence both thrilling and terrifying.

“You think you can escape me?” he had called, breathless, chasing me up the staircase.

I had grinned over my shoulder. “Try me!”

We had collided into the sitting room eventually, and he had spun me around, eyes bright, a madness in him that had seemed like love at the time. Then his lips had found mine, and I had melted into it, believing every word, every shiver of his touch.

“I love you,” he had whispered, almost as if confessing a secret, as if the words were sacred. “Always have, always will.”

I had wanted to believe him. I had needed to. My heart had ached with the promise of it. I had promised myself that I would never doubt this man, that I would let myself be carried away like the silk of my dress trailing behind me.

But it had all been a lie.

All men were the same in the end. They lied. They twisted truths into weapons, into games that left women like me bruised in ways no one could see. And I had promised myself, then and there, that I would never fall for another one. Not fully. Not ever again.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, letting my fingers trail along the quilt, tracing patterns that only I could see. The memory of his arms around me lingered, and I hated myself for remembering. For feeling that pull of warmth that had been replaced with cold.

I had loved him once. Foolishly. And the cost had been everything I thought I deserved.

I closed my eyes and whispered to the empty room. “Never again.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and fragile, like glass.

And somewhere in the shadows of that memory, I realized that part of me still ached.

Tears slipped down before I could stop them. They came quietly, the kind that carried no sound, just warmth sliding down my cheeks. I wiped them fast, swallowing the ache in my throat before it could turn into something louder.

The door creaked open behind me.

“Ma’am?” Leonardo’s voice broke the silence. I felt a little bit awkward that he addressed me as that,but I let it slide. N

I turned, forcing a small, brittle smile. “Yes. Come in.”

He stepped closer, eyes scanning the room but careful not to meet mine for too long. I could tell he had seen the shine on my cheeks even though I had already brushed it away.

“I want you to pack the rest of my things,” I said, opening the wardrobe. My voice was steady now, detached. “Everything that’s left. I’ll be waiting outside.”

He nodded once. “Of course.”

I didn’t wait for him to say more. The walls were closing in. Every corner of the room whispered his name, every scent reminded me of what I’d lost and what I’d survived. I walked out, down the same hallway that had once echoed with laughter. My heels clicked against the tiles, sharp and certain.

Outside, I slid into the car and slammed the door. The sound rang out louder than I expected. A sigh left my lips — deep, long, final. I leaned my head back, eyes fixed on the window as I tried to steady my breathing.

Minutes passed before Leonardo emerged, a single bag slung over his shoulder. He placed it gently in the car’s booth, dusted his hands, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Just as he turned the key, I looked up.

William was there.

He stood at the doorway, baby in his arms, the afternoon light falling across his face. His eyes met mine for only a moment, and in that moment, I felt nothing. No anger. No pain. Just quiet.

The car rolled forward. The image of him grew smaller in the mirror until there was nothing left but the blur of distance.

I had healed.
At least, that was what I told myself. And for once, I almost believed it.

When we reached home, I stepped out before Leonardo could open the door for me. The evening breeze was cool, soft against my face.

“Take the bags inside,” I said. “Put them in the room next to the balcony. I’ll be there soon.”

He hesitated, studying me like he could see past the calm. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight, ma’am. I can stay close, just in case—”

“No,” I cut in gently. “I’ll be fine.”

He wanted to argue, but something in my tone stopped him. I gave him a brief nod, turned away, and walked down the driveway.

The night air tasted like rain. I pulled out my phone and called for an Uber.

By the time I reached the bar, the noise and light felt almost foreign — laughter spilling from one corner, low music humming through the walls. It was a different world, one that didn’t know the weight I carried.

Annette spotted me first. She was behind the counter, her long braids pulled into a loose bun. She lifted a hand, flashing that familiar grin.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” she said in her soft Black American accent. “Girl, I thought you fell off the edge of the world.”

I sat down at the counter. The stool was cold under my palms. “Just busy escaping it.”

Annette poured a drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light as it filled the glass. She slid it toward me, eyes narrowing slightly. “How you holdin’ up, baby?”

I smiled faintly, barely enough to count as one. “I’m free.”

She studied me for a long second, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “Freedom comes with a price, honey. You just gotta make sure it was worth payin’.”

I looked at the drink, at the ripples settling on the surface.

“I think it was,” I whispered.