Amelia stepped back, pulling herself from the safety of Ethan's arms, even though part of her didn't want to.
She turned to Richard, and her voice, soft but shaking, cut through the morning like a blade. "You didn't just lose me today, Richard. You revealed yourself. And that… was the last time you'll ever touch me."
Richard looked like he wanted to spit something cruel, but Ethan moved slightly forward again, and he wisely shut his mouth.
Without another word, Richard turned and stormed back toward his car, slamming the door so hard the sound echoed across the estate.
Then he was gone.
Amelia stood there, breath ragged, skin pale.
Ethan didn't touch her.
He waited.
Until she looked up at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
She nodded slowly, her voice cracking. "Thank you."
He offered her a soft smile. "You okay to stand?"
She looked down at her feet, at her soil smudged dress, her scraped palm.
Then she looked back up at him.
"I'm okay because you caught me."
Ethan didn't say what he wanted to say.
That he would always catch her.
That she was never falling again, not without him to catch her every single time.
Instead, he gently picked up the gloves she'd dropped, brushing her knuckles with his fingertips as he placed them in her palm.
"Let's get you inside."
The moment Amelia stepped into the house, a strange chill washed over her, not from the temperature, but from the silence. The grandeur of the Vale estate never stopped feeling cold. Hollow. As though the walls had absorbed every insult, every tear, and every night Richard never came home.
Ethan followed quietly, wiping the dirt from his palms as he stepped into the glossy marble floored hallway. His boots made soft thuds, the sound swallowed by the high ceilings and wide, echoing space.
He paused just past the threshold.
His eyes swept across the opulence: an oversized crystal chandelier that looked like it had never been turned off, pristine white walls, perfectly aligned paintings, none of which felt like her.
This wasn't a home. It was a showroom. A cage with golden bars.
Amelia noticed his hesitation.
"You can sit," she said softly, nodding toward the armchairs in the corner of the sitting room. Her voice was steadier now, even as the adrenaline of the morning began to fade. "I'll get us some coffee."
Ethan gave a small nod and crossed to the armchair, but his eyes never left her.
He watched her disappear into the adjoining kitchen, her figure slender and graceful, yet marked with invisible bruises he could almost feel.
Amelia moved automatically, grinding beans, pouring water, finding mugs. Her hand trembled only once, when she opened the cupboard and saw the mug Richard had bought her for their second anniversary. It read "Perfect Wife." Ironic now. Cruel, almost.
She pushed it aside.
Two minutes later, she returned with two cups, hers steaming slightly, his black. No sugar, just like he'd preferred.
"I didn't ask how you like it," she said, setting his cup on the side table next to him.
"Doesn't matter. You got it still."
She sat across from him on the couch, pulling her legs up to sit cross legged. Her dress was still stained, and there was dried dirt under her nails, but she didn't seem to care. For the first time, Amelia Vale didn't feel the need to be perfect.
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping coffee that tasted warmer than the room felt.
Then Ethan finally spoke.
"Why are you still holding on, Amelia?"
Her eyes snapped to his.
"I'm not," she said too quickly.
"You are," he said, gently. Not accusing. Just honest. "If not to him, then maybe to the idea of him. The man he used to be. Or the life you thought you had."
She blinked, taken aback by how accurately he'd read her.
"You think I haven't tried to let go?" Her voice was soft, tired. "You think I haven't told myself a thousand times that I deserve better?"
"You do," Ethan said without hesitation. "You deserve a hell of a lot more than the way he's treated you."
Amelia looked away, her gaze drifting to the fireplace, never lit, always ornamental. "When you've spent years convincing yourself that the problem is you, it's hard to stop believing it overnight."
He set his cup down slowly, deliberately, and leaned forward.
"There are men who would worship the ground you walk on. Who would never raise their voice to you. Who would never let another person humiliate you in front of a crowd." His voice grew rough, strained. "Men who would protect you like their life depended on it. Who would see you, really see you, and choose you every single day. With pride. With love."
She swallowed hard, something raw flickering in her eyes.
"And you're one of them?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His jaw clenched, then relaxed. "I'd give anything to be."
Silence.
It stretched between them like a held breath.
Amelia looked down into her cup, her voice quivering. "I don't know who I am without all of this. Without being his wife. I've been Amelia Vale for so long, I forgot who Amelia was."
Ethan's hand moved instinctively, reaching across the space to gently cover hers.
"Then let me help you remember."
She blinked. Slowly.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
He didn't wipe it away.
He let her feel it. Let her have her moment, her sadness, her silence, her confusion, without trying to fix her.
Just being there.
That was what made him different.
When she finally looked back up at him, something had shifted in her eyes.
"I should go clean up," she murmured, reluctantly pulling her hand from his.
"I'll stay until you do," he said, quietly.
"You don't have to..."
"I want to."
She nodded once, rose slowly, and disappeared down the hallway.