Chapter 7: An Old Nemesis

Sophia’s hands trembled as she yanked open the closet door, her vision blurred by unshed tears. The suitcase sat there, waiting—just like she had been, all this time. She had once believed that Ethan’s distance stemmed from the fact that she wasn’t exactly what he wanted, but she had convinced herself that, with time, he would adjust. That he would see her.

She had dreamed of the day he would walk up to her, wrap an arm around her waist like lovers do, whisper sweet words against her skin, and pull her into a kiss filled with warmth and passion. A love story. That’s what she had wanted. That’s what she had waited for.

But that day was never coming.

All the waiting, the hoping—it had been a cruel fantasy. Because there was someone else. Someone he wanted. Someone he touched.

The scene played over in her mind like a movie clip. Ethan’s hands tangled in Margaret’s hair, his lips devouring hers, his body pressed so intimately against her that it had made Sophia feel invisible. As if she had never existed.

A sharp, guttural noise clawed its way up her throat, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it. Her fingers curled around a dress hanger, knuckles white, but she couldn’t bring herself to move.

Leaving felt like the only way to breathe again, the only way to regain her sanity. But a slow, burning rage burned beneath her heartbreak, curling in her chest like embers waiting to ignite.

No. He didn’t get to break her and walk away unscathed.

Her jaw tightened as she released the hanger, her pulse hammering with a new resolve. He was going to face her. He was going to explain himself.

What kind of man ignored his wife—refused to touch her, refused to see her—only to turn around and bury himself in another woman?

Her stomach twisted with the cruel realization.

That’s why he never touched me.

The thought sent a shudder through her, a mixture of fury and devastation writhing in her veins.

Slamming the closet door shut, Sophia strode across the room and sank into the chair by her mirror. But sitting still for more than five minutes proved impossible; restlessness clawed at her, making her feel like she was suffocating in her own skin.

With a sigh, she stood and began stripping out of the day’s clothes. A glance at the clock told her it was 8:12 PM.

If Ethan had any sense of decency, he’d be back by nine.

She hurried into the shower, but the warm water did nothing to wash away the ache burrowed deep in her chest. She scrubbed her skin harder than usual, as if trying to erase the past years of disappointment, of feeling unwanted.

When she stepped out, she grabbed the first set of clothes within reach. No silk nightgowns, no soft lace.

She doubted he would even notice.

Now that she knew the kind of women he was into, everything made sense.

Margaret.

The image of her—tall, striking, with a body that screamed temptation—flashed through Sophia’s mind, and she felt something sharp twist inside her.

Was I ever even an option?

Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus. She needed something to distract her. Something that wouldn’t pull her into the depths of despair she had spent years trying to ignore.

Reaching for her bag, she rummaged through it until her fingers brushed against the cool, crisp edges of a business card.

Alex.

For the first time in a long while, hope flickered inside her. She ran her fingers over the embossed letters, feeling something solid for the first time in years.

"A first-class student in Business Management turned full-time housewife," she murmured bitterly, shaking her head. "What a joke."

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away, forcing a chuckle.

Her father had been so proud when she had walked across that graduation stage—so proud that he had even dabbed in front of her classmates. That memory sent a wet laugh tumbling from her lips.

She had dreamed of so much more.

But then, his illness had worsened. No matter how many doctors they saw or hospitals they visited, no one could offer a cure—only expensive treatments to keep him stable.

She had tried to find a job. But the ones she landed barely covered basic expenses, let alone medical bills. That was when her mother had proposed the marriage arrangement.

Sophia had fought it. Her father had fought it, too. The poor man hadn’t been ready to give up his daughter, and she had run away for days in protest.

But another medical emergency had forced her back home.

She had agreed to the marriage in a hospital room, watching her father lie unconscious, machines beeping around him.

It had never been the kind of marriage she dreamed of. Yes, Ethan was handsome—striking, even—but that was where the appeal ended.

He had barely spoken to her before the wedding, and on their wedding night, he had coldly informed her that he would be sleeping on the couch.

The only good thing that had come out of it was her father’s treatment. Seeing him get better had been the only reason she had endured it for so long.

But now?

Now, she had a new reason to move forward. To take back her life.

The doorbell rang, shattering her thoughts.

Sophia straightened, glancing at the time—9:00 PM, sharp.

Who could possibly be at the door?

Her stomach twisted.

Where was Carla? Why wasn’t she answering?

Grateful that she wasn’t in a nightgown, Sophia tiptoed downstairs, detouring into the kitchen for some sort of weapon.

The first thing her fingers wrapped around was a spatula.

It’ll have to do, she thought grimly.

Taking a deep breath, she approached the front door, bracing herself. With three quick breaths, she turned the knob and flung the door open—spatula raised, ready to strike.

The sight that greeted her made her freeze.

"Alex?"

Her heart kicked against her ribs.

The man at her doorstep smirked, taking in the scene.

"So this is really where you live. Interesting."

Sophia’s stomach plummeted. "What are you doing here?"

Alex shrugged. "Didn’t mean to sound like a stalker, but I had someone follow you home earlier. Figured I’d drop by myself and say hi." His gaze flicked over her shoulder, taking in the lavish interior. "Nice house. Yours? Or your boyfriend's? Maybe husband’s?" He suddenly paused, "Have you been crying? Your eyes, they're red and puffy." He moved closer to her as he tried to confront her.

Sophia’s pulse spiked. "You need to leave. Now."

Alex didn’t budge. "I will. Just wanted to make sure you were okay." His hands moving to comfort her.

Then, the little gate creaked open.

Her breath hitched.

Ethan walked in, looking exhausted and pissed—like he had just trekked a mile.

Then his gaze lifted.

His eyes locked onto them and their physical contact, and a dark storm gathered across his face.

Sophia’s blood turned to ice.

What shocked her even more was Alex’s reaction.

"Is that Ethan?" he muttered under his breath. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

Ethan’s body went rigid. His nostrils flared, his fists curling at his sides.

Then, in a low, venomous growl, he spat, "You son of a bitch."

And before Sophia could react, he lunged.