Chapter 4

Chelsea POV:

The sting in my palm from connecting with Aaron' s cheek was a satisfying counterpoint to the hollow ache in my chest. Back in my apartment, the silence was deafening, punctuated only by my own ragged breathing. I walked through the familiar rooms, each object holding a memory, a ghost of a life I had so foolishly envisioned. It was time to purge. Time to sever every last tie.

I started with the gifts. His gifts. Each one a twisted monument to his deceit. I picked up a small, intricately carved wooden bird, a replica of a rare finch he said he' d seen on a scholarship trip to the Amazon. "It reminds me of you, Chelsea," he' d told me, his voice soft, his eyes earnest. "Rare and beautiful, soaring above the mundane." I had cherished it, placed it on my bedside table, a symbol of his affection.

Then, a sudden, sickening memory flashed through my mind: Kassandra, wearing the exact same bird on a delicate silver chain around her neck, giggling as Aaron adjusted it for her at a firm dinner a few weeks ago. "Aaron said it reminds him of me," she' d whispered to another intern, her voice tinged with false modesty, "rare and beautiful." My stomach churned. He hadn't just given her identical gifts; he'd used the exact same words.

I walked to my bookshelf. My limited edition first print of "The Collected Works of Shakespeare," a gift from my grandfather, had been a prized possession. Aaron, feigning academic interest, had borrowed it months ago, claiming he needed to consult it for a paper. "Just for a few days, Chels," he' d promised, "I' ll be extra careful." He never returned it.

I saw it now, in my mind' s eye, a stark image from a candid photo someone had posted of Kassandra' s cluttered desk. My copy. My treasured, limited edition. Sitting there, in her space, undoubtedly a gift from him.

The memories flooded in, a torrent of stolen affections. My favorite fountain pen, a gift from my mother for graduating law school with honors. My vintage leather journal, where I' d meticulously planned our shared future. The cashmere scarf, knitted by my grandmother, he' d insisted was "too warm" for me, only to see Kassandra wrapped in it days later. He hadn't just given away my items; he had systematically plundered my life, piece by piece, and offered them as tokens of affection to his new muse. He wasn't just replacing me; he was erasing me, item by item, from his narrative, from his life, and replacing me with her.

It wasn't an oversight. It wasn't an accident. It was a methodical, deliberate transfer of ownership. Of me. To her.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. Kassandra wasn't just "sweet and unassuming." She was a scavenger, picking through the remnants of my life Aaron had so carelessly discarded. And Aaron, my once devoted Aaron, had facilitated it all, showering her with my possessions, reinforcing her belief that she was truly "winning" everything I had.

I gathered every single item linked to him, every photo, every card, every gift, and dumped them into a large trash bag. The bag felt heavy, weighted down by years of misplaced trust. I dragged it to the apartment building's refuse chute and let it go. The resounding thud from below was a liberating sound.

My flight was booked for tomorrow morning. London. A clean slate. A new life, unburdened by ghost memories. I wanted one last peaceful night, a chance to recalibrate, to mourn the person I had been.

The phone rang at 3 AM.

My eyes snapped open. The room was dark, silent, save for the insistent trilling. Who would call at this hour? My heart hammered against my ribs, a primal fear clutching at me. I fumbled for my phone, my hand trembling as I answered.

"Hello?" My voice was raspy from sleep.

Silence on the other end. A thick, oppressive silence that stretched on, making my skin prickle.

Then, a frantic whisper. "Chelsea? Please, tell me where you are. I... I' m so sorry." It was Aaron. His voice was filled with a desperate plea, utterly unlike the confident, cruel tone I had heard him use just hours before.

My eyes, still heavy with sleep, instantly cleared. A cold dread seeped into my veins. For a foolish, fleeting second, a tiny spark of hope ignited. Was he finally going to confess? To apologize for the profound betrayal? To acknowledge the depth of his lies?

"Aaron," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "What do you want?"

His voice grew more frantic. "Kassandra... she fell. She twisted her ankle. We can't travel. We... we have to postpone the transfer."

The fragile spark of hope, the foolish notion that he might finally own up to his deceit, was extinguished with a brutal finality. I felt like an idiot. A complete, utter fool. He wasn't calling to apologize for his lies, for his cruelty, for destroying our relationship. He was calling to inform me, his discarded accessory, about his new girlfriend' s trivial injury. To explain why his plans, the plans he had so thoroughly manipulated me into, needed to change.

My hand tightened on the phone. My mind raced, searching for the right words, the cutting retort, the questions that would finally expose his cowardice. Why did you lie? Why did you use me? Why did you let me believe you were in danger?

But before I could speak, he plowed on, his voice gaining a sudden, indignant edge. "And Chelsea, about last night... you really need to apologize to Kassandra. She's really hurt. Emotionally and physically. You hit me, Chelsea! You attacked me! Do you know how that looks?"

I stared at the phone in disbelief. Apologize? He wanted me to apologize? After everything?

"Aaron, are you serious?" My voice was a low, dangerous whisper.

"Dead serious, Chelsea," he retorted, his tone hardening. "You humiliated me. You assaulted me. You owe us an apology."

A sudden, chilling clarity washed over me. In his twisted reality, I was the villain. I was the crazy ex, the jealous woman. Anything I said, anything I did, would be twisted, used against me, to paint me as the aggressor and Kassandra as the innocent victim. In her presence, I would always be wrong. My strength, my anger, my pain-they were just proof of my "intensity," my "drama."

"And if you don't," he continued, his voice now cold, menacing, "then you'll see. People talk, Chelsea. Your reputation... your family's reputation..." He let the threat hang in the air, a chilling reminder of the power he thought he still held over me. "We've been friends for a long time, Chels. Don't throw it all away for a fit of pique."

Friends. The word tasted like ash in my mouth. There was no friendship left. Only the bitter remnants of his manipulation and my naive loyalty. I felt nothing for his threats, only a profound weariness. His words, once capable of shattering my world, now bounced off a hardened shell. He was irrelevant. His threats were meaningless.

I took a deep breath, and then, with a calm resolve that surprised even myself, I pressed the "end call" button. Then, I went to my contacts, found his name, and deleted it. Permanently. Not just blocked. Deleted.

My flight to London was in a few hours. A new chapter. A new Chelsea. I couldn't wait to board that plane, to leave this toxic nightmare behind. The promise of a new city, a new life, stretched before me like a vast, untouched canvas. I was ready to paint it with colors of my own choosing.