Chapter 4: Silent Farewell

The burning ache on my cheek and the metallic tang of blood were like twin brands of disgrace, constant reminders of the ordeal. Beneath the frozen ash in my chest, there was no ripple of feeling. Only a near-arctic clarity guided my movements.

I returned home and walked into the spacious, icy living room. Beyond the vast floor-to-ceiling windows, the city's neon lights still glittered, illuminating this luxurious, warmth-less cage.

Everything here – the bespoke Italian sofa, the abstract masterpieces on the walls, the antique grand piano in the corner – reeked of lies and betrayal.

Suddenly, a thought crystallized with chilling clarity.

Without hesitation, I went straight to the study. My target was clear.

Pulling open the top drawer of the desk, I found expensive stationery neatly arranged. I extracted a single sheet of the whitest, most pristine manuscript paper, printed with staves – a gift from Adrien for me to "record my inspiration." The irony was bitter.

A sharp sting came from my fingertip – the earlier cut had formed a thin scab. Staring at the small, dark red spot, I recalled the blood from Adrien's slap.

I didn't hesitate. I dug my nail deliberately into the thin scab on my index finger until it broke. A bead of fresh, warm blood welled up instantly, carrying the scent of life and iron.

I pressed my bleeding fingertip firmly onto the top left corner of the manuscript paper. A clear, perfect blood fingerprint, like a dissonant note or a fallen teardrop, instantly stained the paper meant for musical purity. The crimson glared against the white despair.

Then, I picked up the expensive fountain pen Adrien had given me. Dipping the nib into the fresh, warm blood, mixing it with the dark black ink, I began to write below the bloody fingerprint, within the blank staves meant for melody and soul. Not notes, but my final accusation and farewell.

The nib scratched lightly against the paper, a sound like a silent requiem.

"When this final movement plays, I will have sunk into the deep sea, or turned to dust."

"Five years of deception. ‘Treasure' was my chains, ‘perfection' a lie. All to conceal the filth behind the curtain."

"Diary and beads—the evidence is clear. My music, the final requiem."

"Adrien, your love is noise. Olivia, your friendship is poison."

"Do not search. Our paths will never cross again. This sullied stage is yours to perform upon."

"May you both, in your endless fugue of lies, descend into hell forever."

Tears fell silently, dripping onto the still-damp blood and ink, blurring small, dark smudges. I watched them spread expressionlessly, as if observing a stranger's story. No grief, no joy remained—only a desolate expanse of ice within.

After the final word, I put down the pen. The blood-and-ink scrawl stood starkly on the pristine manuscript paper, a grotesque wound, a silent dirge.

I didn't look back. I placed this blood-and-tear-soaked letter squarely in the center of the massive, gleaming redwood coffee table in the living room. It was jarringly conspicuous, like a stone cast into stagnant water, destined to cause ripples.

That done, I scanned the place I'd lived for five years. No nostalgia stirred, only a cold, profound relief, as if finally shedding crushing shackles.

I returned to the walk-in closet, stripped off the blood-stained couture gown symbolizing "Mrs. Black," and pulled on a simple black T-shirt and jeans. I shouldered an inconspicuous canvas backpack holding cash, my new identity papers, an untraceable encrypted phone, and bare essentials.

Finally, my gaze settled on the velvet box on the dresser. Inside lay the diamond ring from Adrien's proposal—the cornerstone of a colossal lie.

I picked it up. The cold stone sparkled with false brilliance under the light. Without a flicker of hesitation, I walked to the living room and placed it gently beside the blood letter.

The cold diamond ring rested atop the tear-and-blood-stained accusation.

This was the "perfect" finale to my marriage.

I walked to the foyer, flicked off every main light in the living room and hallway. The space plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the city's ambient glow filtering through the windows, outlining the blurred silhouettes of furniture.

I pulled open the heavy oak door. The slightly cool air of the early autumn night, carrying the scent of freedom, washed over me. The door clicked shut softly behind me. Click. A sound like the final note of a long, torturous piece falling into silence.

I stepped out of the cage called "home," and never looked back.

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