Chapter 4

Scarlett's POV

The hill estate had been our marital home.

When I pushed the front door open, the housekeeper had just set lunch on the table. Seeing me walk in, she hurried over. “Ma'am, you didn’t come home last night? Mr. Vance called this morning asking about you.”

“You have the day off. Pack up and leave,” I said, my voice dead and flat.

She blinked, startled by my cold tone, but didn't dare pry. She hung up her apron and quickly slipped out the door.

The massive house fell instantly silent.

I headed straight up to the second floor, walking into the master bedroom and the walk-in closet. Grabbing two large storage bins, I began stripping the room of every single item tied to Tristan, my face completely expressionless.

On the nightstand sat our large crystal-framed wedding portrait. In the photo, I was wearing a pristine white gown, smiling with pure, unguarded joy. I picked it up and dropped it into the bin. The glass struck the plastic bottom, shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.

Next was the closet.

Every brooch, scarf, and perfume bottle Tristan had brought me over the past seven years went straight into the bins without a second glance.

Then I walked into the study and dialed open the safe. Stacked neatly inside were ninety-nine handwritten love letters from our school days, the ticket stubs from our first movie date at sixteen, the pink diamond ring he nearly died to win at eighteen, and our wedding bands.

I used to value these keepsakes more than my own life. If the house had caught fire, this box would have been the first thing I saved.

Now, they were just a pile of sickening garbage.

I hauled the heavy bins downstairs and dragged them out to the open courtyard. The steel burn barrel the groundskeeper used for yard waste sat in the far corner. I dragged it to the center of the lawn and dumped the contents of the bins inside, piece by piece.

Letters and ticket stubs on the bottom, silk scarves and wooden frames piled on top, followed by the two diamond rings and that worthless counterfeit marriage certificate.

Dusk settled over the city, the winter wind howling through the bare branches.

I clicked open a lighter.

A pale blue flame danced to life. I let go, dropping the lighter straight into the barrel.

The dry paper caught instantly. Bright flames surged upward, hungrily licking through the silk and frames. Plastic and leather gave off thick, acrid smoke as crackling sparks snapped against the quiet evening air.

I stood beside the barrel, letting the scorching heat blast against my skin. The firelight flickered across my pale face, burning in my eyes, but not a single tear fell.

I watched a letter that read, “Scarlett, I’ll love you forever. If I ever break this vow, may God strike me down,” curl into black ash, disintegrating into thin gray smoke that scattered on the wind.

I remembered his three broken ribs. I remembered his bloody knees on the stone terrace. I remembered the scar across my stomach.

Love curdled, and vows were made to be broken. Since none of it had ever been real, I might as well burn it all down to the ground.

Right then, tires screeched against asphalt outside the wrought-iron gates.

A black Maybach skidded to a halt. The driver's door flew open, and Tristan bolted through the gates in a charcoal suit, not even wearing his winter coat, his face pale with panic.

The moment he stepped into the courtyard, he saw the roaring fire and my slight figure standing beside the flames, looking as though a gust of wind could blow me away.

He sprinted across the lawn and grabbed my wrist, yanking me backward. “Scarlett! What the hell are you doing?!”