Chapter 3
The waiting was unbearable.
Unable to sit still, I pulled out the diagnosis report from my miscarriage, its stark words a painful reminder of everything I’d endured.
Maxwell and I had been together for five years, yet he never acknowledged our relationship publicly–not at work, not among friends, not anywhere. To the world, I didn’t exist in his life. Only Miss Lara knew, and even she had stumbled upon the truth by accident.
She looked me over carefully, her sharp gaze almost piercing. “Have you thought this through?”
I nodded, my voice steady and resolute. “Yes. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going
to Air New Zealand.”
A faint smile softened my features. “Miss Lara, if you ever take a trip to New Zealand,
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make sure you fly on the flight I’m serving.”
Her surprise was evident, and her brows furrowed slightly. “And what about Maxwell? Are you really ready to let him go?”
I met her gaze, unflinching. “Whether I’m ready or not doesn’t matter. The result will be the same.”
I asked her to keep my decision from Maxwell, and she nodded, though her concern was clear. “Go home and rest,” she advised. “We’ll handle the formalities when you‘ re ready.”
The process was simple yet surreal. I submitted my resignation through the OA system, knowing it would take a week for approval. At the same time, I visited the visa center and handed in all the necessary documents for my New Zealand visa. Five
working days, they said. Five days, and I’d have everything I needed to leave.
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It’s said that God created the world in seven days. Seven days was all I needed to erase myself from Maxwell’s world.
I had no house, no car, no family keeping me here. There was nothing left to anchor
- me.
Back at Maxwell‘ s apartment, I began packing my belongings. Each item I folded into the suitcase felt like another piece of my past slipping away.
As I zipped up the last bag, my phone buzzed with a new notification.
It was a post from Emily on Instagram Stories.
Her collage of nine photos gleamed on the screen, accompanied by a nauseatingly saccharine caption:
“Thank you, my captain, for letting me experience the joy of skiing with you.”
The photos told a story I didn’t want to see. At Vail Ski Resort in Denver, Emily and
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Maxwell had posed together, unlocking every “romantic skiing pose” imaginable: the princess carry, face–to–face hug, even a back–to–back shoulder lift.
Through the screen, her joy was palpable. She stood in a pink ski jacket that made her look as radiant as cherry blossoms in full bloom.
I tapped a like on Emily‘ s post and quietly exited Instagram.
I didn’t want the gifts Maxwell had given
- me.
I didn’t want the memories he had shared with me.
I didn’t want the love he claimed to offer.
And most of all, I didn’t want him anymore.
I couldn’t bear to stay in his house for even another minute. But a part of me. hesitated–if he came back from Denver and didn’t see me, it might create
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unnecessary drama.
In hindsight, I was overthinking it.
For days, Maxwell didn’t return. No calls, no messages. I didn’t want to reach out, either.
On the night before I was set to finalize my resignation, the door slammed open. Maxwell had come back.
Without warning, he stormed toward me, his face twisted in fury. Before I could react, his hand struck my face–once, twice, then again, five or six times in rapid
succession.
Dazed, I stumbled, but he wasn’t done. Grabbing a fistful of my hair, he dragged me toward the bathroom. I cried out in
pain, but my voice was drowned out by the sound of the shower blasting to life.
Cold water sprayed over me at full force, the icy sting biting into my skin and my soul. I was powerless to resist, trembling under the relentless torrent.
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Maxwell’s voice thundered over the rush
of water. “Grace, how could you be so
vicious?”
I blinked, trying to process his words through the haze of pain and shock.
“I’ve always treated Emily like my own sister! I just took her skiing, and you–how could you hurt her?”
I froze, my voice barely a whisper. “What happened to Emily?”
His rage only grew, his eyes burning with contempt. “You still have the nerve to ask? You know Emily has asthma and is allergic to pollen. And yet, you stuffed lily pollen into the pocket of her ski jacket!”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the
accusation.
“Do you know?” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “You almost killed her!”
