Chapter 6

Kelsey POV:

Before I left New York, I had to go back to the beginning to ensure the end was real.

The small gallery in Chelsea was where Bennett had first told me he loved me. It was where he had bought the building just so I could hang a single charcoal sketch. It was supposed to be our sanctuary, a place untouched by the blood and the business.

I walked in through the unlocked front door. It was late, but the lights were blazing.

And they were there.

Bennett was leaning against a display case, his suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed. He looked like the man I married before the crown became too heavy.

Alya was there, too. She was giggling, tracing her finger along the frame of a painting I had curated three years ago.

"This one is boring," she said, wrinkling her nose. "We should replace it with something modern. Something loud."

"Whatever you want, tesoro," Bennett said. His voice was soft. It was the tone he used to reserve for me.

I stood in the shadows near the entrance, feeling like an intruder in my own memory.

Alya moved to the brass plaque on the wall. It listed the gallery's founding patrons. My name was at the top. Kelsey Calloway.

She pulled a marker from her pocket.

"Let's fix this," she said.

She didn't just cross out my name. She scribbled over it with thick, black lines until the gold brass was nothing but an ugly scar. Then, with a flourish, she wrote Alya above it on the wall.

Bennett watched her. He didn't stop her. He just smiled.

That smile broke the last chain holding me to him.

I walked out of the shadows, my heels clicking sharp and rhythmic against the polished concrete floor.

Bennett turned. His smile vanished.

"Kelsey," he said. His tone wasn't welcoming; it was clipped, annoyed. "What are you doing here?"

"Saying goodbye," I said.

I walked past them, heading for the back corner of the gallery. There was a wooden pillar there, part of the original structure. Years ago, Bennett had taken a knife and carved our initials into it. B & K. Forever.

It had been cheesy. It had been romantic. It was a lie.

I reached the pillar.

The carving was gone.

In its place was a mess of gouged wood and smeared red paint. Alya had already been here. She hadn't just removed it; she had butchered it.

"Oh, you found my little project," Alya said, walking up behind me. Her voice dripped with poisoned honey. "Bennett said we needed a fresh start. The wood was rotting anyway."

I looked at the mutilated wood. It looked like an open wound.

"It wasn't rotting," I whispered. "It was the only real thing in this city."

I saw a chisel on the nearby workbench, left over from a recent installation.

I picked it up. The metal was cold and heavy in my hand.

"Kelsey, put that down," Bennett warned, stepping closer.

I didn't look at him. I looked at the pillar.

I raised the chisel and drove it into the wood.

The impact echoed through the room.

I struck the pillar again. And again. Splinters flew. I wasn't carving. I was erasing. I was destroying the memory so they couldn't corrupt it anymore.

"Stop it!" Alya shrieked. "Bennett, make her stop! She's crazy!"

"Kelsey!" Bennett grabbed my shoulder.

I spun around, the chisel still in my hand. He flinched, stepping back.

"Don't touch me," I said. My voice was unrecognizable. It was guttural.

Alya stepped forward, emboldened by Bennett's presence. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a ring.

My ring. The Calloway family heirloom I had left on the tray at the party.

"You don't need this anymore," she said, tossing it at my feet like it was trash. "I'm the future Mrs. Calloway. We can carve our own names. A real, eternal mark."

Something inside me snapped. The vibration traveled from my chest to my fingertips.

I didn't think. I swung my hand.

My palm connected with her cheek. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet gallery.

Alya screamed. She stumbled back, her heels catching on the uneven floorboards. She flailed, grabbing at the air, and crashed into a freestanding glass display case.

The case wobbled. It tipped.

"Alya!" Bennett roared.

He lunged.

He didn't look at me. He didn't check to see why I had finally fought back. He threw himself toward her.

The case shattered against the floor. Glass exploded everywhere. Heavy sculptures tumbled down.

Bennett covered Alya's body with his own, shielding her from the rain of shards. He took the impact. He took the cuts.

I stood there, untouched. Unprotected.

Silence fell over the room, broken only by Alya's theatrical sobbing.

Bennett pushed himself up. His white shirt was stained with blood from a cut on his arm. He checked Alya frantically.

"Are you hurt? The baby?"

"I'm scared, Bennett," she wailed, burying her face in his chest.

He looked up at me. His eyes were black holes. There was no love left. No history. Just pure, unadulterated hatred.

"You are dead to me," he spat. "You aren't my wife. You aren't anything. Get out of my world, Kelsey. Before I bury you in it."

I looked at him holding her. I looked at the shattered glass.

"I'm already gone," I said.

I dropped the chisel. It clattered on the floor, sounding like a bell tolling the end.