Chapter Fifty-One

River

I hate him. And everyone connected to him. I won’t rest until I’ve made them all suffer.

I numbly turn from the green room’s door and walk away, the tray of refreshments in my hand wobbling because of my trembling hands.

I don’t recall walking down the long hallway, the world around me blurring into nothingness as I move forward on autopilot.

Hannah is the first to spot me when I enter the main hall, her eyes filled with concern. Ever since she returned with Raleigh, she had been nothing but polite with me. She steps toward me and gently takes the tray from my trembling hands. “Are you all right?”

I want to tell her that nothing is all right, that everything has shattered into pieces. But instead, I just nod.

“I told you they wouldn’t want this.” Hannah’s voice drifts over my numb mind as she places the tray on the table, but it doesn’t register.

She is still talking as I move past her on heavy legs. The ground beneath me feels like it’s slipping away, and I’m just… falling. The whole world is a blur, and I’m drowning in it. And I don’t care enough to fight for air.

For revenge.

Every step feels like I’m dragging my own dead weight behind me. My legs barely hold me as I pass Archer.

Hal and Vicky stand, watching me approach.

“Ma’am?” Hal bends his head to look me in the eye but I avert my face.

“I’m tired,” I whisper, the words slipping from my mouth without meaning, without life.

I face Vicky instead. “Can you take me home?” I ask, my voice hollow, like it’s not even mine anymore. It sounds like someone else’s.

Hal pulls out his phone. He’s going to call Damian.

“No,” I manage to say. “Don’t call him.” I swallow hard. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

For the first time, Hal doesn’t argue.

I don’t know what I said to Archer or Hannah before leaving. My mouth moves, my legs carry me, but it’s all so disconnected from the rest of me. I don’t remember the car ride back home or how I ended up in the master bedroom.

My hands move on their own, packing my things with a mechanical precision.

I know I should feel something, but there’s nothing. No anger, no sorrow, no fear—just nothing. My own reflection in the mirror feels alien, like I’m looking at someone else. Someone who was once alive but is now just… dead.

For the second time, I’ve been a fool—an even bigger one than before. I let myself believe that the Damian who seemed to soften, who pulled me close and took me across oceans, was the real one. That the laughter we shared beneath foreign skies, the quiet moments spent tangled together on cold hotel sheets, were glimpses of a new beginning—a true honeymoon, a second chance at the life I thought we could have.

I fell for him all over again, so easily, like I hadn’t learned a single lesson from all the times he’s turned away.

I let down my guard, convinced myself that maybe he had changed, that the distant man who left me aching in silence was finally gone. I was na?ve enough to start dreaming again.

Now, all those moments we spent together feel like fresh wounds. I’m haunted by every touch, every look, every word he said that I thought meant something. I wanted so badly to believe that this time I wouldn’t be left feeling empty, abandoned.

I believed him. I believed in him. I believed I mattered to him.

But now… now I don’t even matter to myself.

◆◆◆

My hands are dirty and a bit scratched as I press my palms into the soil, carefully patting the soil around the base of the little plants.

Mrs. Hawthorne hums softly as she works in the flower bed, her hands moving gently over the roses. Her hands, weathered with age, move carefully but with a certain ease that comes from years of doing the same thing.

She’s in her early seventies, but age has only added layers of grace to her. There’s an undeniable elegance in the way she moves.

Mrs. Hawthorne is one of the wealthier residents in this small village on the outskirts of York. Though you wouldn’t know it by the way she dresses so modestly. She keeps to herself most of the time, a recluse of sorts, but she has always been kind to me.

I’ve spent the last month here, in her beautiful house, doing what I can to repay her kindness by helping with the flowers, cooking meals, and keeping the house in order.

“There’s something I’d like you to do this afternoon,” she says, breaking the silence.

“What is it?” I ask, already making a mental note for it.

“Shopping.”

Caught off guard by the sudden suggestion, I blink in surprise. “Shopping?”

“You’ve been here a month now, River. A month,” she repeats, as though the passage of time is something I’ve forgotten. “I think it’s time you went into town. Get yourself a few things, eh?”

At my puzzled expression, she sighs. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know, dear. You’ve been wearing the same few tops and trousers you brought with you. It’s hardly appropriate for a young woman to go about like that.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she doesn’t let me. “No, no. It’s not up for discussion. You need to get out, get yourself some fresh things. It’ll do you good.”

“I’ll go this weekend,” I offer quietly, but she shakes her head.

“Not good enough. You’ll go today,” she insists. “It’s been long enough. You’ve stayed hidden here long enough, I’d say. It’s time for a change. You can’t live like this forever.”

I stare at her, unsure how to respond. Then, “But I was planning on going to the flower shop,” I say weakly, trying to shift the focus elsewhere, to something—anything—that doesn’t involve a change in my routine.

It’s easier this way—living within the confines of a set routine.

Each morning, I wake up early and begin my day. I help Mrs. Hawthorne with whatever she needs. Then, tend to the house chores—mundane, yet soothing, in its own way. Afterward, I head to the flower shop. The work is calming. Spending hours there helps me focus solely on the present. Then, finally, I return to the place that is my new home, and the cycle begins again the next morning.

This routine—this simple, predictable pattern—has become my shield. It lets me forget. Forget the life I had before, forget the person I used to be, and most importantly, forget everything I left behind.

The idea of change, of facing everything I’ve been avoiding, feels too overwhelming. I’m not sure I’m ready to shatter that illusion by stepping out of the village. Not even for a day.

Mrs. Hawthorne waves a dismissive hand. “The shop can wait. It won’t collapse if you leave it alone for a day.”

The flower shop I manage belongs to Mrs. Hawthorne. It’s a little shop tucked away in the corner of the village.

She used to run it herself. But after I arrived, I offered to work there, wanting to keep myself busy, to stay in motion. I didn’t want anything in return. I just wanted to do whatever I could to help the woman who had saved me during my darkest moments, to repay her in some way for everything she had done for me.

But Mrs. Hawthorne, being the stubborn woman she is, insisted on paying me, telling me that I was helping her too much for it to be free. And so, I accepted.

When I still look reluctant, she fixes me with a stern look. “You can either go shopping, or we start discussing exactly what brought you here in the first place.”

After a month of living with her, I’ve realized that her stern expression is always rooted in care, not criticism. Mrs. Hawthorne never once pried into my past or asked about my family, even though it’s something most people would do when offering a stranger a place to stay.

That night, I managed to escape the mansion and boarded the first flight out, which landed me in London. From there, I took a train on impulse, not really thinking about where it would take me. It led me to this quiet village, alone with just a bag and a mind filled with haunting memories.

My funds were nearly drained, and I had nothing left of value to sell—not even a piece of jewelry. I left my phone and jewelry behind on purpose, knowing it could be traced.

There I was—empty, penniless, and so numb I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My heart felt dead, and the thought of living seemed pointless. I was exhausted, starving, running on fumes, and barely surviving.

That was when I saw a van barreling toward someone crossing the street. Without a second thought, I rushed forward to push them out of the way. The impact sent me crashing to the ground, leaving me with a concussion and a sprained ankle, but I had saved that person.

That person was Mrs. Hawthorne. She was beyond grateful, yet guilt-ridden for what had happened. She insisted I stay with her while I recovered, and I had no reason to refuse. Once I recovered, she asked me what my plans were. She could tell I wasn’t from around here. I told her honestly that I didn’t have any plans, that I didn’t know where I was going. So, she made me an offer—shelter and food in exchange for helping with the housework. I didn’t hesitate to accept, and the rest, as they say, was history.

“So, what’s it gonna be, love?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

Shopping or facing the wreckage of my marriage? The choice is obvious. “I’ll go after lunch.”

She gives me a smug little smile, as though she’s already won, then goes back to her task.

◆◆◆

“Mrs. Hawthorne!” My voice rises in disbelief as she nonchalantly pays for the eight dresses, her expression completely unfazed by my protests. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d already spent a small fortune on sweaters, jackets, and trousers in the previous shop.

She hands over her address to arrange delivery and grabs my arm, steering me toward yet another store. I dig my heels into the ground, forcing her to stop. “You do realize I’m going to pay you back from my salary for all of this, don’t you?”

Her lips purse, and she gives me one of her trademark looks. “I told you not to fret about it, love,” she says firmly, resuming her march toward the door. “And it’s not even my money anyway,” she mutters under her breath.

I narrow my eyes. “What was that?”

“Nowt!” she says quickly. “I’m just saying I’m tired and hungry is all. Let’s grab an early dinner, eh?”

I frown, watching her closely. “You should’ve said something earlier. Let’s just go home if you’re tired. I’ll make you—”

“Don’t be daft. We’re in town, and we might as well make the most of it. A nice meal out’ll do us both good.”

It’s strange—Mrs. Hawthorne has always hated crowded places, preferring the quiet sanctuary of her own kitchen. But I don’t push it. Maybe she’s just that hungry and doesn’t want to wait until we’re home.

As we settle into the restaurant, though, an unsettling sensation starts to gnaw at me. It’s as if someone’s watching me, their gaze heavy on the back of my neck.

I glance around, scanning the faces of the diners, but nothing seems out of place. Everyone’s absorbed in their own meals and conversations.

By the time we finish and head home, the feeling hasn’t faded. I tell myself it’s just my nerves.

The next day, I fall back into my usual routine. After finishing the dishes in the morning, I head to the flower shop. When I return home in the evening, I find a note stuck to the front door.

Had to go to town to meet the solicitor, I’ll be back in the evening .

I frown as I read. Mrs. Hawthorne had mentioned this visit before, but I hadn’t expected it so soon. Ever since her husband passed away few years ago, she’s been fighting a legal battle over a townhouse he left her. Some distant relative of his—a cousin’s grandson—had popped up, claiming rights to the property, and it’s been a mess ever since.

The thought of her dealing with this alone weighs on me. No matter how tough she pretends to be, I know how much this has worn her down. She should’ve taken me with her.

I freshen up quickly and change into the new cashmere and silk blend turtleneck midi dress and long run coat in dark green.

I know her solicitor’s address is in the little diary she keeps in the salon, so I start looking for it.

I’m flipping through the pages when a knock at the door startles me. Is she back already?

I rush to the door, ready to scold her for not taking me along. But the moment I pull it open, time grinds to a halt as the air leaves my lungs. My knees threaten to buckle, and I instinctively step back.

Standing before me is the man I’ve been running from.

My husband.

Damian.

Like always, he’s found me again.