CHAPTER 3 The Ghost Town
POV: Maya
The salt air hit me the second I stepped out of the rusted sedan, sharp enough to burn the back of my throat.
It was cold. Brutal, really. But as I stood on the porch of my late grandmother’s crumbling cottage, staring out at the grey, churning Atlantic, I took the deepest breath I’d taken in four years. My lungs actually expanded. Who knew?
The house smelled like old cedar, dried lavender, and about fifty years of forgotten memories.
It was three hours away from the polished marble floors of Julian’s penthouse, but it might as well have been on another planet.
No catered dinners. No silent, agonizing galas where I had to smile while another woman practically marked her territory on my husband’s lap. No Julian.
My hands were shaking, but not from the cold.
I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket.
The screen lit up with three missed calls from Julian’s personal assistant and a single text from an unknown number that I already knew belonged to Clara: We need to talk about what happened.
Don't make this dramatic, Maya. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. Dramatic.
I’d spent four years being the quiet, dutiful, invisible wife.
I’d swallowed my pride, managed his life, and smiled through the subtle insults of a man who looked right through me toward a ghost. I hadn't made a scene at the gala.
I hadn't thrown glass. I had simply walked away.
And if that was her definition of dramatic, she was in for a real reality check.
Without giving myself time to overthink it, I popped the SIM card out of the side of the phone. I didn't hesitate. I walked to the edge of the wooden porch and tossed the tiny silver chip straight into the overgrown thicket of sea grass below. Click. Just like that, the tether snapped.
A sudden, dizzying wave of panic hit me right in the center of my chest. It was terrifying.
For four years, my entire existence had been anchored to Julian Thorne.
My calendar was his calendar. My priorities were his deals, his reputation, his needs.
Stripping all of that away in a single afternoon left me feeling completely weightless—and not entirely in a good way.
It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the wind to knock me over.
What now, Maya? You’re thirty, broke, and single. Great strategy.
I dragged my single suitcase through the front door, the old floorboards groaning under my boots.
The living room was frozen in time. Grandma’s dusty yellow armchair still sat by the fireplace, and the heavy wool throw blanket was still draped over the back.
I dropped my bag, collapsed onto the sofa, and stared up at the ceiling. Silence. Absolute, deafening silence.
No phone ringing. No urgent emails demanding my attention. No Julian walking through the door with his jaw set, carrying the heavy stress of a multi-million-dollar merger while treating me like a glorified house manager.
I waited for the tears to come. I braced myself for the crushing heartbreak of a woman whose marriage had officially died in front of two hundred people. But the tears didn't show up. Instead, a weird, fiery spark lit up in my chest.
It was the first time in four years I didn't have to ask permission to just exist. I didn't have to hold my tongue. I didn't have to play second best to a woman who treated people like disposable accessories.
I pushed myself off the couch, walked into the tiny, outdated kitchen, and opened the cupboards. Empty, save for a box of chamomile tea and a tin of vintage butter cookies. I grabbed a mug, filled it with tap water, and shoved it into the ancient microwave.
"Right," I muttered to the empty room, my voice sounding raspy, strong, and unfamiliar. "Step one: survive the night. Step two: figure out who the hell Maya is when she isn't acting as Julian Thorne's shadow."
I walked back over to the front window, leaning my forehead against the cool glass. The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the crashing ocean waves in shades of deep violet and gold. It was wild, messy, and entirely untamed. Just like my life was about to be.
Julian was probably back in the city right now, realizing the house was empty. He was probably convinced I’d be back in two days, waiting for me to break, apologize, and fall back into line. He thought I was weak. He thought I was safe. He had no idea I was never coming back.