Chapter 5

The fire crackled in the hearth.

At last, he shook his head, a conflicted look crossing his face.

"I'm sorry, Erika."

He avoided my gaze.

"I promised her... promised I'd spend tonight with her. The fight... next time, okay? Next time, I swear I'll show you."

He glanced at the flashy women’s watch on his wrist—Evelyn’s? Or a gift from her? His voice rushed, impatient.

"I have to go. She's... she's waiting."

"The food’s in the kitchen. The soup should be ready. Eat early. Don’t wait up."

He bent down, attempting to place a farewell kiss on my forehead.

I turned my head away.

His motion froze midair. He looked at me with a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

In the end, he said nothing. Just turned, grabbed his coat from the sofa, and walked out in a hurry.

The sound of the engine faded, and the manor returned to silence.

I stood there, staring at the bouquet of red roses left by the fireplace.

So beautiful. So passionate. Like a grand, cruel joke.

I don’t know how long I stood like that before finally climbing the stairs. I didn’t go to the kitchen. I didn’t touch the pot of soup he had so carefully prepared.

Instead, I opened a dusty box hidden deep in the back of the walk-in closet.

Inside, folded neatly, was a ballet outfit—once worn on stage as I danced Giselle, under Charles’s adoring gaze.

I changed into the costume.

Some parts didn’t fit quite right anymore.

The woman in the mirror looked tired. Her cheeks were hollow.

She was no longer the radiant Churchill heiress who had once captivated Charles with a single performance.

Still, I tied my hair up with care.

Then, alone, I descended into the basement of the manor—into the old training room.

I took out my phone and connected it to the Bluetooth speaker.

The music began. The same Giselle piece from years ago.

My eyes brimmed with tears.

I took a deep breath.

And I began to dance.

Spinning, leaping, kicking, reaching.

Every movement carried the full force of seven years of bitterness, fury, unwillingness, and love—thrown into the air with every step.

Sweat soaked my back quickly.

My breathing grew ragged, my lungs burned.

But I didn’t stop.

In that empty training room, I danced the final piece for a love that had long since died—for a boy who would never return.

When the music stopped, I collapsed to my knees, drained.

Panting, I looked up at the mirror.

The woman was smiling.

It was over.

Charles.

That dance was the last.

So were our ten years.

I staggered to my feet, peeled off the ballet outfit, and tossed it aside like garbage.

A cold draft brushed past me. I shivered, but my mind had never been clearer.

Back in the living room, I checked the time: 3:00 a.m.

The phone was silent. No missed calls. No messages.

He really hadn’t come back.

I started the car and drove straight toward Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.

In the distance, the airport lights stretched into a cold, dazzling line.

I parked, reached over to the passenger seat, and picked up the small suitcase I had packed days ago. Alongside it was a folder containing a new passport and a plane ticket.

Destination: Paris. Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Departure time: 5:15 a.m.

I glanced one last time at my phone screen.

The lock screen was a photo from when we were eighteen.

At our high school graduation dance, he’d worn a rented tux that didn’t quite fit. I wore a simple white dress. We were grinning at the camera—carefree and wide-eyed.

I reached out with one finger and gently tapped the young, cocky Charles on the screen.

Then I powered off the phone, removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, and dropped it into a trash bin by the road.

Pulling up the suitcase handle, I walked into the bright, empty departure hall of the airport without looking back.

Goodbye, Seattle.

Goodbye, Charles.

Goodbye forever.