Chapter 22
Idisappear quietly. No goodbye. No closure. Just silence. Knox calls once. I don’t answer.
After that, he doesn’t try again.
I leave the city a week after the scandal breaks. The tabloids still run headlines, but the world moves on faster than pain does.
I rent a room two hours away, close enough to still see the skyline from the window when the weather is clear.
The first week, I sleep too much. The second, not at all. The quiet is suffocating at first, like I traded one kind of noise for another. But eventually, I start to hear something else beneath it. My own thoughts.
The doctor at the clinic helps me find a recovery group.
At first, I sit in the back and say nothing. Listening feels easier than speaking. But each story I hear sounds too familiar to ignore. The panic. The craving. The shame. The wanting to feel something again even when it hurts.
By the third session, I tell them everything. The heartbreak. The spiral. The night I almost didn’t wake up. And for the first time, the weight I’ve been carrying doesn’t feel so impossible.
Sometimes, when I’m alone staring at the small tv, I catch myself thinking about Knox. The way his voice sounded when he said my name. The way he looked at me like I was something worth fighting for.
I miss him.
But I know missing him isn’t the same as needing him.
By the third morning, an envelope arrives at the front desk. There’s no return address, but I know the handwriting instantly.
Inside is an invitation and a huge box.
Cain International Annual Gala.
For a long time, I just stare at it.
It’s printed on heavy ivory cardstock, the same kind he uses for his company correspondence. The note inside is short.
You once told me mirrors only show what we want to see.
Come see the truth instead.
— K
My pulse quickens. I close my eyes, holding the invitation against my chest.
I could throw it away. I could stay here and pretend this life I’ve built is enough. But a small voice inside me whispers that maybe it’s time to face him again.
Not as the woman who fell apart.
But as the one who finally learned how to stand on her own.
That night, I look in the mirror for a long time. The reflection looking back isn’t perfect, but she’s stronger. Clearer. Real. I press my fingers to the glass and whisper, “You’re ready.”