Chapter 6

By early morning, Blackwood Manor was in a state of frenetic disarray.

Damian had risen at five. I heard him pacing in the adjoining room, barking orders over the phone to his stylist, his driver, and the security team. He intended to appear before Claire in a state of absolute perfection; he wanted the first thing she saw upon deplaning to be an impeccable Damian Blackwood.

I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window in the bedroom, looking down at the scene below.

Six black Rolls-Royce Phantoms were lined up in the morning mist like an army awaiting inspection. Every vehicle was polished to a mirror shine. The chauffeurs, dressed in uniform with white gloves, stood rigid and straight. Security personnel were performing final checks on the vehicles, their expressions as grave as if they were preparing for a presidential visit.

Damian walked out of the house. He was clad in a bespoke Tom Ford suit in charcoal grey, which accentuated his stature, making him look as upright as a pine. His hair was meticulously styled, every strand coerced into its proper place. In his hands, he cradled a massive bouquet of freesias, still glistening with dew—he had ordered the gardener to cut them from the greenhouse at three in the morning to ensure peak freshness.

He didn't look like a thirty-eight-year-old business tycoon; he looked like a high school boy on his first date—nervous, expectant, exhilarated.

I drew the curtains, shutting out the scene.

It was time to leave.

My luggage was simple: a single silver suitcase. Inside were my real clothes—sharp trousers, crisp shirts, a few designer little black dresses, alongside my laptop and essential documents. As for the closet full of clothes Damian had bought me over the last three years, I didn't take a thread.

They didn't belong to me, just as this mansion, these jewels, and this marriage didn't belong to me.

I changed into a black dress with a clean, sharp cut and zero superfluous ornamentation. I tied my long hair into a low ponytail and applied a coat of true red lipstick—the color Damian hated most, claiming it was too aggressive. Finally, I put on my sunglasses, obscuring half my face.

As I dragged my suitcase down the stairs, Howard, the butler, stood in the grand hall, looking as though he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.

"Madam..." he began hesitantly. Howard was one of the few people in this house who had treated me with any kindness, perhaps because he had seen me late at night in the kitchen, brewing my own coffee and reading, and knew I wasn't quite the "shallow trophy wife" Damian described.

"The car is ready. Shall we take you to the Lincoln Park apartment?" he asked.

"No." I stopped, pulled a set of keys from my handbag, and handed them to Howard. "These are the keys to that apartment. Tell Damian I don't need it. Let him donate it to a charity."

Howard's eyes widened. "But Madam, that property is worth twenty million..."

"And the jewelry, the clothes, the furniture on the third floor that hasn't even been unboxed—get rid of it all," I interrupted, my tone calm. "Donate it, sell it, throw it away, I don't care. I don't need anything associated with the name Blackwood."

"Then... where will you go?"

I smiled faintly. "To where I belong."

Just then, a black Maybach slowly rolled through the manor gates and pulled up alongside the row of Rolls-Royces. The door opened, and the driver stepped out—a young man I hadn't met before, dressed in casual wear. He nodded to me respectfully.

This wasn't Damian's motorcade. This was my car—bought with my own money, registered in my own name.

Howard looked at the car, then back at me, and seemed to realize something. His expression grew complex—a mix of surprise and... was that a trace of respect?

"Madam, take care," he said, bowing slightly.

"You too, Howard. Thank you for looking after me these past three years."

I walked toward the Maybach. The driver took my luggage and loaded it into the trunk. I slid into the back seat and closed the door.