Chapter 6

Aubrey didn' t go to the attic right away. She went to her bedroom-their bedroom-first. The door was wide open. Inside, maids were packing her belongings into boxes.

Connor wasn' t just moving her to the attic; he was erasing her from their life together, making space for Kassie. The speed and efficiency of it all made her sick.

She walked up the narrow, creaking stairs to the attic. It was a small, dusty space, cramped and dark, with a single tiny window. Her life, packed into cardboard boxes, was piled in a corner.

"Just throw it all out," she told the maid who had followed her up.

The maid looked shocked. "Everything, ma' am? Even the gifts from Mr. Harris? The photos?"

Aubrey' s gaze fell on a photograph sticking out of the top of a box. It was of her and Connor as kids, grinning at the camera, their arms slung around each other' s shoulders. She picked it up, her thumb gently brushing away a layer of dust. For a moment, she hesitated.

Then she tossed it back into the box.

"Burn it," she said, her voice hard. "Burn it all."

"But ma' am," the maid protested, "Mr. Harris once got so angry when one of these frames was accidentally broken. He values these things."

"He doesn' t anymore," Aubrey said flatly. She ordered the maid to bring her a metal basin. She would do it herself.

One by one, she fed the remnants of her past into the flames. Dresses he' d bought her, books he' d given her, pictures of them smiling, laughing, loving. She watched them curl and blacken, turning to ash, just like their love.

Her surgery was in a week. Whether she lived or died, she was done with him. This bonfire was a funeral pyre for the girl she used to be.

The next day, she went to the orphanage. She made a large donation, enough to ensure the children would have everything they needed for years to come. Then, she asked the director for the old photo albums. She went through them page by page, and wherever she found a picture of herself, she took a black marker and crossed her own face out, obliterating her image from the record of this place.

She went to the old sycamore tree in the yard. With her bare hands, she dug into the damp soil until her fingers hit something hard and metallic: a rusty tin box.

Inside were two small glass bottles. Each contained a slip of paper, a wish for the future they had written as teenagers. She opened hers.

I want to be Connor' s bride.

She could almost hear his voice, a memory from that day, promising he would never leave her. A promise as fragile as the yellowed paper in her hand.

She tore the note into tiny pieces and let the wind carry them away.

She left the orphanage and walked, her feet carrying her to the old, run-down apartment building where they had lived after leaving the system. It was a tiny, cramped space, but it had been their first real home. He had bought the whole building after his family found him, saying he wanted to preserve their memories.

She looked up at the grimy windows. Like her, it had been forgotten.

"Aubrey?"

A kind, familiar voice pulled her from her thoughts. It was Fred Frank, the elderly owner of the small diner on the corner where she and Connor used to eat when they could afford it.

"Mr. Frank," she said, managing a weak smile.

"It' s been too long! I keep seeing Connor on the news. You two getting married soon?"

The question was so innocent, so full of the hope that had long since died in her.

"We' re not getting married, Mr. Frank," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "He' s having a baby with someone else."

Mr. Frank' s smile faltered. "But... he loved you so much."

Aubrey' s eyes burned. "Is the diner open? I' d love a bowl of your noodles."

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I' m sorry, honey. I closed up for good last month. Getting too old for this."

The last flicker of light in her eyes died. "Oh. That' s a shame."

"Wait here," he said, and disappeared into the darkened diner. He returned a few minutes later with a steaming bowl of noodles. "I was just making some for myself. Here, you have it."

He looked at her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes. "You need to take better care of yourself, kid."

She took the bowl, the warmth seeping into her cold hands. The steam rose and clouded her vision, hiding the tears that started to fall. She took a bite. It tasted of home, of a life that was gone forever.

"It' s just as good as I remember," she choked out.

"You can have it anytime you want," he said with a kind smile.

She knew she would never eat his noodles again. The thought was a fresh wave of grief. She kept eating, stuffing the noodles into her mouth, trying to swallow the sobs that wracked her body. But the tears wouldn' t stop. They fell into the bowl, seasoning the broth with her sorrow.

Finally, she couldn' t hold it in any longer. She put the bowl down on the stone table, laid her head in her arms, and wept.