Signed, Sealed...Goodbye

“Draft the divorce papers together with my resignation letter,” I said, my voice steady. “I want both on your desk tonight.”

Attorney Vega blinked twice. His pen slipped from his hand and landed on the legal pad between us.

“You’re serious about this, Therese?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” I met his eyes. “He’s going to find that hard to ignore.”

He leaned forward slowly, as if I might vanish again if he moved too fast. “Everyone knows you are dead."

“I survived, attorney.” My voice sharpened. “But he didn’t look for me. Not even once.”

Silence.

Vega glanced down at the paperwork I hadn’t touched yet. Blank templates. Just names waiting to be written.

“I can send you the drafts tonight,” he said carefully. “But are you ready to face the consequences?”

“Don't fret. I'm sure he won’t fight it,” I said. “After all, he knows I’m dead sixfeet under.”

Yes, that’s what he thought…

__________________________________________________

It was raining hard by the time I reached the Sky villa. But my determination pushed me to go on. My finger flicked against the security passcode. It worked. He hadn’t changed it.

Good.

As I opened the doors, emptiness greeted me. The house was exactly as I remembered. Cold. Tidy. It smelled like a man who hated mess. I stood in the kitchen, running my fingers across the edge of the marble counter.

He used to come home late. Smiling like a man with everything, even as he walked right past me without noticing what I wore, how long I waited, or how much of me had disappeared piece by piece. Now he’d erased me completely.

Until tonight.

I set the two documents on the dining table. Crisp, untouched. His name; my name. The end of it all printed in black and white.

No anger. No begging. Just facts. This was my final act in a life he tried to bury. The door beeped. Follwed by footsteps. Familiar. Unhurried. Calculated.

And then I saw him—Dominic Sullivan. Charismatic. Dangerous. He froze on the spot when he saw me.

“Oh, God…Therese?!”

The sound of my name on his lips should’ve meant something. But it didn’t. Not anymore. I smiled—a chilling one that would radiate in his spine and said…

“Hello again, my dear husband.”

“TTherese?” His voice cracked the air like a bone.

He stood there in the doorway, keys in hand, an expensive coat still draped over his arm. For a split second, Dominic looked like a man who’d seen a ghost.

I didn’t move. I wanted him to feel it. The weight of seeing me breathing. The last time he saw me, I was unconscious in a burning car. I was helpless but he left me there. Ruthless.

“You’re not…” he stepped forward slowly. “You’re—how are you—?”

“Alive,” I said. “Surprised to see the woman you killed on our supposed anniversary?”

He stared at me like the word tasted wrong in his mouth. “They told me there were no survivors.”

“You mean—you told them to stop looking for me.”

He didn’t deny it. Silence wrapped the room in something cold and sharp. He dropped his coat on a nearby chair. His hands trembled slightly. I placed my palm flat on the documents laid on the table.

“These are yours. Divorce. Resignation. Both signed on my end.”

“You came back just for this?” he asked, smirking.

I tilted my head. “No, Dominic. I came back to give you the ending you wanted. Just not the one you planned.”

He walked toward me, slow, calculated. The charm still coated every move, like cologne over rot.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Things got complicated.”

“Complicated?” I let out a small laugh. “You paid off my medical records. Staged my death. And got engaged to Isabelle Tan while the ink on my death certificate was still drying.”

“You were never supposed to be in that car—”

“Stop lying.”

He flinched.

“I was the easy solution, wasn’t I?” I continued. “The quiet wife. The invisible one. The one who wouldn’t scream.” I stepped closer. “But here I am…Breathing and alive.”

His expression tightened. He looked down at the divorce papers, then back at me. “Do you know what will happen if this gets out?”

“Of course,” I said, chuckling. “Your empire burns. Your engagement collapses. And everyone finally sees who you really are.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

I smiled, sharp as glass. “I didn’t survive a car crash just to whisper.”

He grabbed the documents, flipping through the pages. “You really think you can walk away clean?”

“No,” I said. “But I can walk away free.” I turned toward the door. “You owe me, Dominic. But I’m not here to collect.”

His voice chased after me. “Wait. Therese…Please don’t do this…”

I paused in the doorway.

“I’ll sign them,” he said, quieter. “But you need to understand—none of this was personal.”

That was the moment I knew he still didn’t get it.

“You set me on fire,” I whispered. “That’s as personal as it gets.”

Then I walked out.

Let him sit in the ashes.

Because it's payback time!

Tan Foundation’s annual charity night wasn’t just an event—it was a statement. Silk gowns. Champagne flutes. A gala vision in gold.

And tonight, I came dressed to be seen.

The moment I stepped into the ballroom, a few heads turned. Not because they recognized me—most never even knew the CEO’s “assistant” had a name. Just another shadow trailing behind Dominic Sullivan.

Until now.

“Ms. Rinelli?” A hostess blinked, surprised. “I… didn’t see your name on the guest list.”

I smiled. “Someone made sure I’d get in anyway.”

Because someone wanted this confrontation.

And I already knew who—Isabelle Tan.

Goldplated, sharptongued, born from old money and newer scandals. Near the center of the room, framed by soft lights and social climbers, she’s a scenestealer in her champagne silk, red lips. Eyes like a blade you wouldn’t see coming until it was already under your ribs.

She spotted me across the ballroom, and for a second, I saw it—the flicker of annoyance. Then she smiled. And motioned me over like I was a lost girl she’d already decided to pity.

“Therese,” she said sweetly, eyes cold. “What a surprise. Back from the dead?”

I didn’t answer her bait. The first time I knew their filthy affair was over a phone call. Late. I brought him coffee. He didn’t hear me outside the door.

“She suspects nothing,” Dominic said.

Then her laugh—low, slow, poisonous.

“Let her wear the ring,” Isabelle purred. “I’ll wear you.”

I left the tray on the floor.

They were careful—at first.

Then careless.

Then bold.

After that, I watched everything with fresh eyes.

How her hand lingered on his arm at board meetings. How she called me “sweet” like I was a dumb puppy.

And then Maldives. A photo. No caption.

Just Isabelle almost naked in the poolside, golden skin, holding his tumbler—my gift to him on our second anniversary. He told me he was in Morocco for a business forum, but his reflection was in her sunnies.

That’s when I stopped crying.

And started recording.

“I thought you might want to speak in private,” I said after a while.

She chuckled, sipping her drink. “Why? We’ve already shared so much, right? But, yeah, let's hear your thing.”

She led the way into a quiet side hallway, the velvet curtains muffling the sound of wealth behind us.

“I assume Dominic knows you’re here?” Isabelle folded her arms over her supersized chest and went on, “Or is this another secret you’re keeping from your husband?”

“You already knew, didn’t you?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Of course. I’ve known for a while.”

“Then why continue the engagement?”

She stepped closer. “Because I don’t care that he married you. You were a rug he loved to step on. A body he used to get through the silence. You're good as dead, Therese.”

I stiffened. But she wasn’t done.

“Would you like to know what we did the night your car flipped and burned?”

I stayed still.

She leaned in, her voice a silk blade. “We were in his penthouse. My lipstick was still on his collar when they called to tell him you were ‘missing.’ He didn’t even pause. Just poured me another drink and said, ‘It’s handled.’”

Heat surged under my skin, but I didn’t move.

“You think showing up here makes you strong?” She sneered. “It makes you pathetic. Everyone knows Dominic plays dirty. But you? You thought he’d love you for being loyal.”

I met her eyes. “And you think he’ll love you for being cruel? You don’t scare me, Isabelle. You never did.”

Her smile faltered—just enough for me to see the crack. I stepped past her; she followed.

“And where exactly are you going?” she called behind me.

I didn’t turn around as I answered, “To make sure your fairytale ends before the wedding does.”

She laughed. But behind the sound, I heard what she didn’t want me to notice—fear in shrilling bold letters. I slipped away from the crowd, because I had one last stop to make.

__

INSIDE THE PROJECTOR ROOM

The tech team was gone, busy helping with soundcheck. I reached into my clutch and pulled out a slim USB. Labeled only with a single word—DEATH.

I slotted it into the control board. The video was short. Fortythree seconds. Just long enough. Dominic’s voice. Isabelle’s laughter. A cold conversation recorded months ago—one neither of them knew I had.

I hit upload.

The timer was set. The video would play at the end of the presentation, right when the camera panned to the future Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. Dominic built an empire on image.

Now he’d watch it crumble in front of every lens. And when that video plays, Isabelle won’t just lose her crown—she’ll choke on it!

I stood at the edge of the ballroom, one hand resting on a crystal flute I didn’t drink from.

From here, I could see my sloppy, goodfornothing soon to be exhusband.

Dominic was immaculate in a black tuxedo, hand resting far too comfortably on Isabelle Tan’s waist. He looked like a man born to dominate the room—effortless, controlled, adored.

The projector screen flickered to life at the front of the ballroom. A polished montage began to play—children in classrooms, charity galas, press clippings. The music soared. Applause followed like sheep.

A waiter glided by with champagne. I didn’t take one.

Ten seconds...

The host stepped forward. “And now, a special message from the bride and groomtobe…”

The lights dimmed dramatically. The screen faded to black. Then Dominic’s calculated and cold voice wafted into the air.

“She’s not going to make it.”

Then came over Isabelle’s voice—

“Are you sure? If she survives, she’ll be a liability.

“So what do we do?”

Silence. Then Dominic again—

“We let her die.”

The hall turned fiery. Ripples. Shifts. Murmurs behind crystal and silk, gasps scattered like broken glass. Phones began to rise like a wave of judgment.

Chaos cracked beneath chandeliers and curated luxury. People moved—toward exits, toward screens, toward answers.

Dominic spun—eyes wild, hunting.

Then he saw me.

And across the havoc, Isabelle turned her head slowly toward me. Her eyes locked onto mine, then the screen, then back. Her expression cracked. Fury poured out. She stormed through the crowd. And then—slap!

Her hand whipped across my face, a brutal slap that echoed above the chaos. My head snapped sideways, but I stood my ground.

“You vindictive little witch,” she spat, trembling, breathless. “I should’ve finished you with my bare hands!”

Blood painted the inside of my cheek. I smiled through it.

“You ruined everything,” she seethed.

I didn’t flinch. “Did I? Because from where I’m standing… it looks like you did that all by yourself.”

Phones filmed. Whispers surged like wildfire. Isabelle Tan, the flawless fiancée, was unraveling for the world to see.

Dominic reached us, tone sharp. “Isabelle, stop—”

“No, Dominic! Let me handle this bitch!” Isabelle shrieked, aiming to slap me again.

But I struck her right away. My palm met her face with such force that her head snapped the other way. Gasps ripped through the crowd like thunder. “That’s for trying to bury me,” I whispered in her ear. “Next time, aim for the heart.”

Dominic grabbed my wrist. “Enough of this bullshit, Therese!” His touch burned against my skin—not from guilt. From thick and cold fury.

“She was supposed to be gone,” he muttered, gaze never leaving me.

“I trusted you, Dom!" Isabelle snapped at him.You said she was handled.

"She was nothing!” Dominic hissed in ragged breaths.

I laughed—a bitter, unholy sound. “Only the dead don't say a thing, Dominic.”

He stared at me, eyes darker than I remembered. Not with regret, but it was something nasty. Rotten. Dominic’s voice cut through the noise. Seething.

“You shouldn’t have come back, Therese.”

I turned slowly, lips curling. “Oh, Dominic…” I said. “I never really left.”

Behind him, Isabelle yanked something from her purse. And then everything went black. Then came a scream… and a terrifying GUNSHOT.

Screams sliced through the ballroom. The screen went dead. The chandeliers flickered. Panic surged like a rising tide.

Someone yelled, “Get down!”

I didn’t move. My ears rang. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air like a curse. Across the chaos, Isabelle stood by the stage, shoulders heaving, eyes wide with something like madness. The gun still smoked in her trembling hand.

“HE IS MINE!” She shrieked. Her voice was shrill, unrecognizable.

I stepped forward. Isabelle pointed the gun toward me—but her hand shook so violently she could barely aim.

“You think he’s yours now?” she snapped. “You think just because you walked back from the grave, he’ll love you again?”

Isabelle’s finger inched toward the trigger.

BANG!

A bullet tore through the wall behind where I’d been standing. Screams exploded again. A chair toppled over. Security lunged at Isabelle, pinning her against the stage as the gun clattered to the floor.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Suddenly, a body slammed into me, causing me to drop on the floor.

But none of it mattered… Because I was in Lance McKinley’s arms. I blinked back the burn in my eyes. Then, I realized—people were watching us. Recording. Whispering.

And Dominic?

He stood across the hall, frozen, jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cracked bone. Our eyes locked.

He tried to erase me, but now he was watching me held by another man—and I could see it written all over his face.

Possession.

The kind of look that said you may have ruined me, but I still own you.

Lance helped me to my feet, one arm protectively looped around my waist. Dominic took one slow, dangerous step toward us.

“You,” he spat, his voice low and sharp. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve just walked into.”

Lance didn’t even blink. “No, you don’t. Because this time, she’s not alone.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Lance didn’t flinch. “The man who actually gives a damn whether she lives.”

With that, he walked me straight out of the ballroom like the ending to every disaster movie. Reporters shouted questions. Security cleared a path. Cameras exploded behind us.

Lance covered me until we slid inside his car. We burst into the night, tires screaming against the pavement.

He glanced at me, voice rough. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a bruised cheek… and a few old wounds reopening,” I whispered.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I swear, if he touches you again—”

“I’m not afraid of Dominic anymore.”

Lance looked over, gaze heavy. “Good. But just in case, I brought backup.”

Silence. Then—

“I thought I lost you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Six years, and I still remember how you looked when you laughed at my terrible pizza. How you always stole the last fry. I’m still into you, Therese.”

I turned to him slowly. But before I could say anything, he tensed.

His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

“What is it?” I asked, nervous.

He looked at me. “We’re being followed.”

I turned, craning my head out for the window. And there it was—Dominic’s car—chasing after us like he had a death note clamped around his neck.

We pulled up in front of Lance’s private hotel—a quiet luxury tower tucked away from Sullivan Holdings, far from society’s lenses. He stepped out first, then opened my door like he always used to.

Not because I was weak.

But because he always gave a damn.

Dominic’s car screeched to a stop at the curb just as Lance placed a hand at the small of my back and guided me through the lobby.

I felt Dominic’s rage even without looking. His jealousy and animosity poured through the air like acid rain.

Inside, the marble floor gleamed beneath my heels. The receptionist gave a nod, no questions asked. Lance’s hand never left my back as he led me toward the private elevator.

Dominic’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Therese!”

I didn’t turn. But I heard the disbelief.

Lance pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open with a chime.

Dominic’s footsteps thundered. Lance behind us.

“Therese, don’t walk away from me.”

This time, I glanced at him over my shoulder. “I did that the night you let me die.”

The elevator doors began to close. But just before they sealed us in, he stepped forward and growled, “He’s not who you think he is.”

I didn’t blink. “And you were?”

The lift swallowed us whole.

Inside, Lance said nothing for a beat.

Then softly, “He’s not going to stop, I know.”

“He already is,” I replied.

The elevator dinged on the penthouse floor. We stepped into the private suite—warm lights, quiet elegance, and not a single memory of Dominic. Just clean air.

I walked toward the window, overlooking the city I used to belong to. My phone buzzed again.

Twentyseven missed calls from Dominic. Then I felt Lance draping a soft blanket around my shoulders.

His voice was low. “You’re safe now.”

___

Three days passed.

The courtroom was sterile—clean lines, ticking clocks, the scent of cold paper and bitter resolve. The judge’s gavel struck once. Just once. But that single crack sliced through nearly a decade of history.

“Divorce granted,” the judge said flatly.

Dominic stood to my left. Silent. Stoic. In that sharp gray suit, he looked like the perfect corporate king. But I knew better. His jaw was tight. His hands clenched.

Rage flickered in the shadows of his eyes. I didn’t look at him as I gathered my things. Outside the courthouse, the city stretched like a freshly scrubbed canvas.

Later that night, the bar pulsed with quiet jazz and golden light, tucked into the heart of Lance’s hotel. Cola was already at our reserved booth, nursing a cocktail that sparkled like her grin.

“To freedom,” she said as I slid in beside her.

“Cheers!” I chimed in, clinking my glass to hers.

Lance joined us later—casual, charming, sleeves rolled up. The staff knew him by name, and the air shifted when he entered. He leaned over to whisper something into Cola’s ear, making her laugh.

I barely spoke. I just listened. Let the music melt into the background while the weight of the day dissolved in champagne bubbles.

No more court dates. No more waiting. No more Dominic. No more mistress along my way. By eleven in the evening, we called it a night.

Cola looped her arm through mine as we stepped out onto the quiet sidewalk, the night air cool and clear. Our heels clicked against the pavement, echoing off the sleeping buildings.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, stripped of her usual sass.

“I think so,” I said. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will,” she replied. “You just survived hell in heels. Now it’s time to live like you own the damn fire.”

I smiled faintly. “I just want peace.”

Cola stopped walking, gently tugging my arm until I looked at her. “You’ll have it, T. You already are it. He doesn't get to haunt you anymore.”

I nodded, even though a strange chill rippled down my spine. She then got into the car and drove off.

I exhaled and walked the last block alone.

It was past midnight when I returned to my condo. The hallway was still, the lights dimmed to a sleepy amber glow. My heels clicked softly against the marble tiles as I approached the door. I pressed my thumb to the sensor, but I felt something off as I stepped inside.

I slipped off my heels, padding silently across the floor. Then I saw a jacket—draped over the back of the chair. Navy. Wool. Familiar.

My pulse thudded as I turned toward the living room.

And there he was—Dominic.

“You changed the locks,” he murmured, swirling the goblet in his hand.

I stepped back instinctively. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

I froze near the threshold, my heartbeat drumming loud in my ears. My hand instinctively tightened around my clutch, as if it could somehow protect me from everything Dominic had ever broken.

I took a cautious step and hissed, “We’re over. What do you want, Dominic?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there in his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up like he belonged in the pages of some polished magazine—except tonight, he looked haunted. Tired. Like whatever mask he wore out there had started to crack from the inside.

“I needed to see you,” he said simply, swirling the goblet in his hand like he owned the place.

“That’s not an answer,” I snapped. “I can sue you for trespassing.”

He gave a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. “Trespassing, my ass. You really think locks and passwords can keep me out? I know your patterns, Therese. Every code, every habit, every soft spot you try to bury.”

I clenched my jaw. “You knew the woman I was before you left me for dead. That version doesn’t live here anymore.”

He took a slow step forward, his voice dangerously soft. “But she still looks at me the same way.”

“I don’t,” I said through my teeth.

“Yes, you do,” he said, daring to close the distance. “You look at me like you’re waiting to be disappointed, like you’re bracing for the moment I shatter everything again.”

I turned away. “Then you already know what will happen next. Get out.”

He didn’t move. I could feel his gaze like heat crawling up my spine.

“I saw the way he touched you,” Dominic said tightly. “At the hotel. In that bar. His hands were all over you like he’s earned that right.”

“He has,” I said.

Dominic’s voice dropped to a rasp. “Don’t lie to me.”

I whirled to face him, rage bubbling past the years of buried grief. “You don’t get to stand here like you didn’t destroy me. You don’t get to act like you still have a claim over me just because you're jealous now.”

“I’m not jealous.”

I laughed coldly. “You’re seething. You chased us in your car like some deranged lover in a soap opera.”

“You think you’re safe with Lance,” he spat. “But you don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Oh, but you’re a beacon of trust and moral clarity?”

His mouth opened, but I cut him off. “I died for you, Dominic. I took a hit—emotionally, physically, literally. And you didn’t even show up to the funeral.”

“That wasn’t—” he began, but his voice cracked.

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re totally strangers now, so keep the fuck out of my life.”

He stepped closer until I could feel the storm radiating off his chest. “I won’t give up on us.”

I held his gaze. “There is no us.”

For a second, the room was silent except for the sound of our breaths. The weight of history between us was unbearable—like walking barefoot across glass we both helped shatter.

Then he stepped back, nodded once, and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “I hope he’s everything I never was.”

“That’s none of your damn business, Mr. Sullivan.”

The door clicked shut behind him. And I collapsed onto the couch like every breath I’d held since the courtroom was finally exhaled. I didn’t know how long I sat there.

The city lights blinked outside my window, oblivious to the war unraveling inside my chest. My phone vibrated against the table, dragging me out of my fog.

Lance.

Just checking in. Did you make it home safe?

I texted back with shaking fingers:

Yes. But Dominic was here when I arrived.

His reply came fast:

That asshole. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in a few.

I should’ve said no. I should’ve insisted I needed space, clarity, time. But the truth was—I didn’t want to be alone tonight. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell chimed. I opened it to find Lance standing there in jeans, a hoodie, and holding takeouts.

“Didn’t know what you ate after exorcising demons,” he said with a soft smile. “But I brought pizza and nachos.”

I smiled faintly. “Come in.”

He toed off his sneakers at the entry, like he’d been here before. Like nothing was forced. He didn’t demand to be let in—he waited for the invitation. And that difference alone made my eyes sting.

We sat crosslegged on the couch, boxes of pizzas between us, and silence stretching like old friends. After a few minutes, Lance glanced over.

“He say anything that got under your skin?”

I nodded and replied, “The bastard still thinks I’m his property.”

Lance didn’t flinch. “Nice try. Always a delusional guy.”

“He also said you’re not who I think you are.”

He arched a brow, then shrugged. “He’s right about one thing—I am different now. But that doesn’t mean I’m hiding something. It means I’ve been through hell, same as you.”

I agreed, nodding wordlessly. We talked a little more. About work. About the news. About Cola’s chaotic dating life. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of things that remind you the world doesn’t end just because someone tried to ruin yours.

Then my phone buzzed. I ignored it.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Lance leaned over. “Do you want me to check it first?”

“No,” I whispered. “I’ve got it.”

I reached for it, expecting another message from Lance or maybe Cola.

But instead—ISABELLE TAN tagged you in a story.

My blood roared into my ears as I unlocked the screen. And there it was—

A grainy, clearly edited photo of me entering Lance’s hotel the night of the ballroom incident. Hair messy. Eyes wide. A freezeframe of chaos—but manipulated to look like seduction.

The caption burned in my eyes...

She faked her death and slept her way back into society. I wonder how many graves she’ll crawl out of for attention. #NotTheVictim