---

The knife paused mid-chop.

Selina's hand hovered over the wooden cutting board, her gaze fixed on the TV screen in the open-plan kitchen. The local evening news was playing in the background - just noise while she cooked dinner. Until-

Her heart stopped.

She reached for the remote, but her fingers missed it.

There, broadcast live from Florence International Airport... was her husband.

Lucas Hart.

Smiling. Holding a bouquet. Dressed in the same navy suit he wore that morning when he kissed her cheek and told her he'd be "in meetings all day."

And in his arms...

A woman.

Tall. Elegant. A navy-blue trench coat flaring in the wind. Her hair was longer than Selina's, but the resemblance was unmistakable. They looked almost like sisters - or they would have, once. When Selina still wore hope in her eyes.

But this wasn't a business colleague.

This wasn't a sister.

This was her.

Amara.

The woman he once loved.

The woman who left him.

The woman he'd promised was no longer a part of his life.

Selina didn't know how long she stood there - only that the chicken was burning, and the anchor's voice was saying something about "power couple reuniting after years apart."

Reuniting.

Power couple.

The remote finally hit the floor with a hard crack.

The screen stayed on.

Lucas leaned down and kissed Amara's cheek. His smile - the one Selina hadn't seen in over a year - stretched across his face like it had never left.

The room tilted.

Not in a dramatic way.

Not in the way books or movies would tell it.

There was no scream, no sob, no glass shattering against the wall.

There was only silence.

The kind of silence that curled around her chest and squeezed until even breathing became a decision.

---

She didn't cry.

She didn't speak.

She just turned off the stove, sat on the stool near the island, and waited.

For what... she didn't know.

The front door opened fifteen minutes later.

Footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

Lucas walked into the kitchen like nothing had happened. His tie was loosened, his cufflinks removed. The air around him smelled of bergamot and betrayal.

He froze when he saw her.

For the first time in years, they stared at each other.

Really stared.

Selina wasn't crying.

Lucas wasn't surprised.

"You're home early," she said softly, voice even.

He exhaled like it hurt. Then stepped forward.

He placed a thin envelope on the counter between them.

It made a quiet thud.

Her hands didn't move.

"You already saw?" he asked.

She nodded once.

He didn't bother lying.

Of course he didn't.

---

She finally looked down at the envelope.

DIVORCE PAPERS.

Clean. Crisp. Signed.

His name, in dark ink, already written where hers should go.

There was no speech. No explanation. No apology.

Just silence.

Lucas's mouth opened slightly. But whatever he was going to say died in his throat.

Selina slid the envelope aside with one fingertip and stood.

She walked past him - not rushed, not stiff - and headed upstairs.

He didn't follow.

He didn't ask why she wasn't yelling. Why she wasn't begging. Why she hadn't asked the one question most women would.

Selina reached the top of the stairs and paused.

Her voice floated down like silk soaked in steel.

> "Thank you... for proving I was never the one you chose.

Only the one you settled for."

---

She didn't sleep.

She sat on the edge of the bed with the envelope still sealed in her lap, the lights off, the night thick and humming with absence.

Lucas hadn't come upstairs.

The door downstairs never opened again.

He had given her the divorce like one gives away a business card - efficient, impersonal, expected.

No fight.

No tears.

Just proof that she had always been an option.

And that he had finally made a choice.

Not her.

---

At 3:42 a.m., Selina stood. Moved on muscle memory. Walked barefoot into the closet and stared at the clothes she once bought to please a man who never noticed the details.

Her hand passed over silks, neutrals, soft blush tones.

All curated to match his tastes.

All pointless now.

She pulled out a single suitcase and laid it flat on the floor. No hesitation. No list.

She packed like someone who had done this before - just never this quietly.

A few pairs of trousers.

Two coats.

A cashmere turtleneck she bought during their honeymoon in Prague - back when she thought forever had begun.

She left the turtleneck.

She left everything sentimental.

---

By dawn, she was dressed in a plain black sweater and jeans.

Her wedding ring sat on the edge of the nightstand - gleaming in the last morning light she'd ever see in this house.

She looked around their Florence villa one last time.

Not for memories.

But to make sure she'd taken herself with her.

Because somewhere in that house, her old self had died.

The woman who waited for kisses.

The woman who lit candles for anniversary dinners he never showed up to.

The woman who asked, "Is it me?" when his silence lasted too long.

That woman had been buried last night.

And no one attended the funeral.

---

She didn't leave a note.

She didn't slam the door.

She simply walked out of the villa, dragging her suitcase over cobblestones still wet from dawn rain.

Taxi. Airport. Passport. Ticket.

Her name hadn't changed.

But her heartbeat had.

---

Flight to Geneva, Switzerland.

She chose it because it felt cold.

Clean.

Unattached.

No one knew her there.

She wouldn't have to explain anything.

She could start over with nothing but her breath and her fury.

On the plane, she sat in the window seat and stared through the glass like it might show her a new version of herself.

The man beside her offered a polite smile. She didn't return it.

When the attendant asked if she wanted champagne, she declined.

Her fingers toyed with the boarding pass in her lap until her knuckles ached.

---

As the plane lifted from the Florence runway, Selina closed her eyes.

And did something she hadn't done in months.

She remembered.

---

Flashback: Two Years Ago.

Their second wedding anniversary.

She'd spent the morning baking chocolate soufflés - his favorite.

The house was warm, quiet. Romantic.

He came home late.

His tie was askew. He smelled like musk and exhaustion. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

Selina ran to greet him with a kiss.

He pulled away gently. "Not tonight."

She paused. "Is something wrong?"

Lucas shook his head, already loosening his cufflinks. "I'm tired, Selina. Don't start."

> She hadn't started anything.

He was the one who stopped.

Later that night, she overheard him on the phone.

Not the words.

Just the tone.

Tender. Longing.

She never asked who it was.

Because some part of her... already knew.

---

The plane jolted softly as it dipped toward the Swiss skyline.

Back in the present, Selina sat rigid in her seat, her nails pressing into her palms.

Geneva spread below her like a map drawn in steel and snow.

She watched the ground rise to meet her.

And told herself:

> This is where I stop surviving and start becoming.