Chapter 2

Elinor Frost POV:

The chill of the hospital room was a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the party. The sterile scent of antiseptic burned my nostrils. My eyes fluttered open, the harsh fluorescent lights above searing my retinas. My head throbbed. I was alone, again. The familiar ache of abandonment settled deep in my chest.

A nurse bustled in, her expression kind but busy. "Ms. Frost, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

I tried to speak, but my throat was painfully dry. She offered me a cup of water,

the ice clinking softly against the ceramic. The cool liquid soothed my raw throat.

"Where is Braden?" I finally managed to whisper.

The nurse paused, her gaze softening with pity. "Mr. Harmon had an urgent meeting. He asked me to tell you he'd be back as soon as he could." Her words were rehearsed, a familiar empty script.

I closed my eyes, a bitter laugh dying in my throat. An urgent meeting. Of course. His career, his image, always came first. I remembered standing there, swaying, the world spinning, and his dismissive sigh. He hadn't even bothered to check if I was alright, simply handed off the problem to his assistant. He left me to collapse, to pick up the pieces alone, while he continued his grand performance with Destany.

The memory of the party, of their intertwined bodies, of Braden's triumphant smirk, flashed behind my eyelids. It was a sharp, piercing pain, not physical, but emotional, cutting deeper than any bruise. I had loved him with every fiber of my being. I had believed in a future where his ambition and my quiet talent could intertwine, where his public persona and my private dreams could somehow coexist. I had been a fool.

My hand instinctively went to my ring finger. The diamond, once a symbol of eternal love, now felt like a heavy shackle. I looked at it, really looked at it, for the first time in years. It was just a rock, cold and lifeless, reflecting the harsh hospital lights. It meant nothing. He meant nothing.

A profound calm, cold and resolute, settled over me. There would be no more waiting. No more hoping. No more clinging to the ghost of a love that had never truly existed. The exhaustion I felt earlier wasn't just physical; it was soul-deep, a complete and utter depletion of all hope.

I pushed myself up, slowly, the stiff hospital gown rustling around me. "I need to get out of here," I told the nurse, my voice steady, devoid of the tremor I expected.

She looked surprised. "But the doctor hasn't discharged you yet, Ms. Frost. You had a severe blood pressure drop, likely due to stress."

"I'm fine," I insisted, swinging my legs off the bed. "I just need to go home." Or somewhere that wasn't here, somewhere Braden wasn't.

I signed the discharge papers against medical advice, collected my meager belongings, and called a car. I didn't wait for Braden's "urgent meeting" to finish. I didn't wait for his call. I just left.

In the car, heading back to the house that had become my gilded cage, I felt a strange sense of liberation. It was a small act of defiance, but it felt monumental. I was no longer waiting for his permission, his presence, his crumbs of attention. I was acting for myself. I wondered if he would even notice I was gone. Probably not until his assistant told him.

My phone rang, a shrill, jarring sound that made me flinch. It was Braden. My finger hovered over the 'answer' button, a flicker of the old habit. But then I remembered his smirk, Destany's triumphant gaze, the public humiliation. The sound of his voice, loud and angry, boomed through the speaker. "Elinor, where the hell are you? My assistant just told me you left the hospital! Why are you always so dramatic? Do you have any idea how bad this looks for me?"

I leaned my head against the cool window, watching the city lights blur past. He wasn't worried about me. He was worried about his image. His reputation. His carefully constructed facade. The anger, sharp and hot, flared within me, but it was quickly replaced by something colder, more dangerous: pity.

"Did you really think I'd wait around for you, Braden?" I asked, my voice calm, almost emotionless. "After what I saw tonight? After what everyone saw tonight?"

There was a pause, a beat of stunned silence on his end. "It was nothing, Elinor! Just an act for the cameras. You know how the industry is." His voice was gruff, a familiar defense. "Destany's just a client."

"A client you kiss in public?" I countered, a dry, humorless laugh escaping my lips. "A client whose hand you hold after she 'accidentally' bumps into you in a hallway?" I remembered seeing them once, a casual brush of hands, a look that spoke volumes. It was never just a client. It was never nothing.

I heard muffled voices in the background, then a woman's giggle. It sounded like Destany. A fresh wave of nausea washed over me, not from my recent collapse, but from the sheer audacity of his lies, the proximity of her presence even now.

"Don't be ridiculous," Braden snapped, his voice losing its forced calm. "You're overreacting. You always do. Now, listen to me, Elinor. Your grandfather is already asking questions. You need to come home, lay low, and let this blow over. Otherwise, there will be consequences. For you, and for your father's songbook."

The old threat. The familiar leverage. It used to work. It used to freeze me, make me compliant, desperate to protect the only thing I had left of my father. But something had shifted. The ache in my heart was still there, but it was no longer a wound that bled. It was a scar, hardened and numb.

A cold, mirthless smile touched my lips. "Consequences? Braden, darling, you have no idea what consequences truly mean." My voice was steady, unwavering. "You think you can still control me with promises and veiled threats? You think I'm still that naive girl who believed your lies?"

I didn't wait for his reply. I just ended the call, the click of the phone echoing in the silent car. It felt good. It felt shockingly, terrifyingly good.

As the car pulled into the driveway, I noticed my phone vibrate again. A notification. It wasn't Braden. It was from Destany Aguilar's public Instagram account. A new post. My finger, almost of its own accord, tapped the screen.

It was a photo. A blurry, intimate selfie of Destany and Braden, earlier that night, probably taken moments after their kiss. Her head was nestled against his shoulder, her eyes half-closed in a look of possessive contentment. His arm was still around her waist. And on his left hand, glinting in the camera flash, was his wedding ring. My wedding ring.

The caption read: "Such an amazing night with the best producer in the world! So blessed to have you in my life. #musicindustry #blessed #goodtimes"

And then, just below it, a single red heart emoji. From Braden Harmon.

My breath hitched again, but this time, it was not from shock or pain. It was from a quiet, burning rage. He had liked her post. He had endorsed her public declaration of their affair, while still wearing my ring, making a mockery of our marriage, of me. It wasn't about the industry, about selling scandal. It was about humiliation. My humiliation.

My gaze dropped to my own left hand, to the identical ring that still sat on my finger. It felt hot, branding my skin. It felt like a lie. With a decisive tug, I pulled it off, the cold metal sliding easily over my knuckle. I held it in my palm, a small, glittering piece of metal. It represented nothing. It was empty.

My thumb moved, hovering over the Instagram app. My own profile. My last post was a photo from our anniversary dinner, six months ago. A forced smile, a hopeful caption about "forever." It felt like a lifetime ago.

I typed out a new caption, my fingers flying over the screen with a speed born of cold fury: "No more waiting for someone who was never coming home. Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is walk away. And unlock a door you never knew was there."

I didn't tag anyone. I didn't need to. The message was clear. I then deleted every photo of Braden and me, every memory, every lie, erasing them from my digital footprint, just as I was trying to erase them from my heart. Then, with a sigh that felt like shedding a heavy burden, I clicked "post."

I stood there for a moment, looking at the bare finger where my ring used to be. It felt light, free. The metaphorical door had been unlocked. And for the first time in years, the crushing weight in my chest lifted, replaced by a hollow, terrifying, yet exhilarating sense of freedom.

That night, for the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn't leave a light on for Braden. I didn't set an extra place at the table for breakfast. I didn't wait. I simply got into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The silence of the house was not lonely, but peaceful. Serene.

I used to prepare Braden' s breakfast every morning, carefully choosing his favorite blend of coffee, his specific brand of toast. I would wake up before dawn, just to ensure everything was perfect. He would barely glance at it, sometimes pushing the plate away with a dismissive wave. "Not hungry," he'd mumble, or "This isn't quite right." Once, he'd even sneered, "Do you even know what good food tastes like, Elinor? This is bland, just like everything else about you." He had a way of turning every effort I made into a weapon against me.

I realized then, as the peaceful darkness enveloped me, that he never liked my cooking at all. He never liked anything about me. And the light I left on for him, a beacon of hope in the dark, had always been for a man who wasn't just late, but would never arrive.