Tiffany Scorsese could buy a skyline the way other people bought coffee—without looking at the price, without pausing to consider the weight of it. In Cloudridge, everyone knew her name. Half the city’s prime properties, the rumor went, belonged to her: glass towers downtown, brownstones along the river, boutique hotels perched over the marina like glittering crowns.

And then there was me.

Matthew Marsden. The man who somehow married the Queen of Cloudridge and still managed to feel like a ghost in his own home.

For five years, I learned the rules of loving a woman like Tiffany: never ask for too much time, never demand a promise she didn’t volunteer, never publicly claim what she refused to acknowledge. In private, she could be warm—briefly. In public, she was ice and headlines. And every time her first love, Cedric Gardner, called her name, she vanished like my marriage was a coat she could shrug off at the door.

The compensation came in paper.

A deed slid across her desk. A pen twirled between her fingers. A signature—careless, effortless—turning another piece of Cloudridge into my name, as if love could be measured in square footage. I forgave her once. Then twice. Then ninety-nine times, because I told myself fairness meant endurance.

On the hundredth time, I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I didn’t rage.

I chose the finest mansion in Cloudridge and waited for her to sign what she thought was another property transfer.

She signed—smiling—while the television behind her announced Cedric’s return.

And I smiled back, because this time, she wasn’t signing a deed.

She was signing our divorce.

—————————————————————————

1. The Queen and the Ghost

If you’ve never watched a person own a city, it’s hard to explain.

Tiffany didn’t just have money—she had gravity. People bent toward her without realizing it. Board members laughed louder at her jokes. Waiters moved faster. Security guards stood straighter. Even the air in a room felt different when she entered, like the temperature changed to match her mood.

Our penthouse sat above Cloudridge like a private cloud—floor-to-ceiling windows, a balcony that wrapped around the building’s corner, marble so polished you could see your future in it if you stared long enough.

The only thing it lacked was warmth.

That wasn’t always true. Five years ago, when Tiffany first started chasing me, she was relentless in a way that made people think it was romantic. She’d show up at my office lobby with coffee and a grin, the kind that made you feel like the only person in the world even while she had a billion-dollar empire on her phone.

“I’m taking you to dinner,” she’d say.

“I’m busy,” I’d answer.

“I’ll wait.”

And she would.

The first time I rejected her, she smiled like she’d expected it.

The tenth time, she started leaving notes: Still no? with a little crown doodle on the corner.

The fiftieth time, she brought backup—her assistant, Jillian Ferguson, standing behind her with a clipboard like Tiffany was negotiating a hostile takeover of my heart.

The ninety-ninth time, I told her, “You don’t want me. You want the win.”

She stared at me, eyes sharp. “Then let me win.”

I should’ve heard the warning in that sentence. I should’ve recognized the way power works—how it doesn’t like to be denied, how it doesn’t understand the word no unless it’s a challenge.

But I was tired. Lonely in the way a lot of ambitious people are lonely—surrounded by coworkers and deadlines and empty weekends.

And Tiffany was bright and insistent and impossible to ignore.

On her hundredth confession, she didn’t show up with coffee or gifts. She showed up with honesty.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” she told me, standing in the rain outside my building. Her hair was sleek, but the storm had pulled strands loose. “I know how to build things. I know how to win things. I know how to control outcomes. But when I’m with you, I can’t control what I feel.”

I remember my breath fogging in the cold air. I remember thinking, That’s the first time she’s sounded human.

So I said yes.

We got married in a private ceremony at a waterfront estate she owned but never visited. No paparazzi. No press. No public photos. It was more like a secret contract than a celebration.

The day after, she moved me into the penthouse and kissed me like she meant it.

For a while, it felt like a miracle.

Then Cedric Gardner came back to Cloudridge.

And Tiffany’s miracle expired.

2. The Anniversary That Never Happened

Cedric’s return was announced the way celebrities get announced—breaking news banners, glossy photos, interviews that weren’t really interviews so much as staged nostalgia.

Tiffany sat on the couch beside me that morning, watching his face on TV like she was watching the sun rise.

“Who’s that?” I asked lightly, because I didn’t want to sound threatened.

She blinked, as if remembering I existed. “An old friend.”

The word friend was a lie she told so smoothly it almost sounded like truth.

That night was our first wedding anniversary.

She told me she had a surprise.

I believed her.

I came home early and found the penthouse transformed—candles on the dining table, a wine bottle breathing next to two glasses, soft music playing. My chest warmed with hope. I’d never been the kind of man who needed big gestures, but Tiffany’s attention felt like sunlight: rare, precious, addictive.

I waited.

The clock crawled.

At 10:17 p.m., my phone buzzed.

A message from Tiffany:

I’m sorry, Matthew. I missed our anniversary. Will you forgive me?

A second message followed: a PDF attachment.

A property deed.

I stared at the screen, then at the candlelit table meant for two.

When she finally came home near midnight, she smelled like a different man’s cologne.

She smiled at me like she hadn’t just detonated something important.

“Work ran late,” she said, and the lie felt rehearsed.

I swallowed the bitterness and forced my voice steady. “It’s okay.”

Her shoulders relaxed, like she’d expected a fight.

That was the moment I made my first private vow—the kind no one puts in wedding vows because it’s too ugly to say out loud.

To make it fair, I’ll forgive her ninety-nine more times.

It sounded noble in my head. Like I was choosing patience. Like I was choosing love.

In reality, I was training myself to accept crumbs.

3. Ninety-Nine Forgivenesses

The second time, Tiffany didn’t even apologize.

She came home late, tossed a deed onto the counter, kissed my cheek absentmindedly, and went to shower. When I tried to ask where she’d been, she said, “Don’t start.”

The third time, she didn’t come home at all.

The fourth time, she came home with a glow on her face that had nothing to do with me.

By the tenth time, I stopped asking questions.

By the twentieth, I started reading the deeds. Not because the properties excited me, but because paper was the only part of Tiffany that felt consistent.

By the thirtieth, Jillian Ferguson started looking at me with something like pity.

Jillian was Tiffany’s assistant in the way a general has an aide—quiet, efficient, always watching. She moved through the penthouse like she belonged there, and in many ways, she did.

One night, after Tiffany vanished again, Jillian found me in the kitchen staring at the city lights like they might offer an answer.

“Mr. Marsden,” she said softly, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” I asked, though I knew.

“Pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

I laughed once, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

Jillian’s eyes flicked toward the hallway like she was making sure Tiffany wasn’t nearby. “It matters to you.”

I swallowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

Because Jillian had never broken Tiffany’s wall before. Assistants like Jillian didn’t have opinions. They had schedules.

She hesitated, then said, “Because I’ve seen this pattern before. Tiffany falls in love with an idea. She builds it. She claims it. Then when it stops thrilling her, she leaves it behind.”

I stared at Jillian. “And you think I’m… what? An old project?”

Jillian didn’t flinch. “I think you were real to her. Once. But Cedric…” She stopped, like saying his name felt dangerous.

I nodded slowly. “Cedric is a ghost she refuses to bury.”

Jillian exhaled. “Something like that.”

After that, Jillian became the only person who knew the truth: that Tiffany and I were married in private and strangers in public.

Sometimes, at charity galas, Tiffany would stand beside Cedric and smile like a magazine cover while I hovered in the background introduced as “a cousin” or “a family friend.” Her mother, Elena Fletcher, loved that arrangement. She treated me politely like I was hired help and insisted I call her Aunt Elena whenever cameras were near.

For five years, I became an actor in my own life, playing the role of someone adjacent to Tiffany’s world instead of inside it.

And every time Tiffany went to Cedric, a new deed appeared.

The first property felt surreal—an upscale condo downtown.

The tenth was a waterfront townhouse.

The fiftieth was a boutique building with rental income so high I could’ve retired at thirty-five.

By the time I reached the ninety-ninth, I didn’t feel grateful.

I felt numb.

Because the deeds weren’t gifts.

They were hush money.

They were proof that Tiffany believed love could be paid off like a debt.

And maybe, for a while, I let her believe that—because I was too afraid to find out who I was without her.

4. The Hundredth Document

The day Cedric’s return hit the news cycle again—bigger, louder, accompanied by that glossy “homecoming” narrative—Tiffany was in her office on the top floor of Scorsese Holdings.

I stood in front of her desk holding a folder.

Inside it: a property transfer agreement for Parning’s Manor, the most desired mansion in the western suburbs. Ocean views. Private road. Historic prestige. The kind of place people in Cloudridge whispered about like it was a myth.

And hidden beneath it: a divorce agreement.

I had drafted it with my lawyer weeks earlier, signed my part, prepared the filing, timed everything like a man disarming a bomb.

Tiffany didn’t look at me when I approached.

Her eyes stayed on the office television.

A reporter was narrating Cedric Gardner’s “return to rebuild his legacy.” Cedric’s smile on screen was modest, charming, calibrated.

Tiffany leaned forward like she could step into the screen and join him.

I placed the folder on her desk.

She reached for it without looking away from the broadcast.

“Sign here,” I said quietly.

Tiffany twirled her pen, signed with barely a pause, then slid the folder back.

“I must have transferred over sixty properties to you by now,” she said with a laugh. “You’re basically a little tycoon.”

The delight in her voice wasn’t about me.

It was about Cedric.

I nodded, calm. “Parning’s Manor has a view of the ocean. I really like it.”

She hummed, distracted. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Then, for the first time in months, her expression softened—just a flicker, like warmth trying to break through ice.

“When I get back,” she said, still watching Cedric on screen, “let’s go watch the fireworks together.”

Five years ago, that would’ve gutted me—hope swinging open like a trap.

This time, it made me smile.

“Okay,” I said softly.

I tucked the signed agreement away.

Not a deed.

A goodbye.

5. Twenty-Five Days Left

Divorce agreements have a strange gravity.

Once you’ve signed one, time feels different. The days aren’t just days—they’re steps toward a door.

For the first week after Tiffany signed, I waited for panic.

Instead, I felt… clean. Like I’d stopped bleeding after years of pretending I wasn’t wounded.

Tiffany, meanwhile, glowed.

Her social media—usually sterile, corporate, curated—became oddly alive.

During the day: photos of pigeons in the plaza, her hand visible near Cedric’s in the corner of the frame.

At night: rooftop views near the amusement park, parade floats in the distance, Cedric’s silhouette leaning close.

The comments rolled in:

QUEEN OF CLOUDRIDGE + HER KING 😍
So happy Cedric is back!
They were always endgame.

I watched it all without reacting.

Not because I wanted to torture myself.

Because detachment is its own kind of revenge—quiet, painless, final.

I packed my things.

I didn’t have much. Tiffany had filled our closets with designer clothes for appearances, but my actual possessions were modest: books, a few suits, old photos from before Cloudridge turned into a cage.

The penthouse felt like a museum—beautiful, sterile, full of expensive objects that didn’t belong to me.

On day five, my phone rang.

Jillian.

“Mr. Marsden,” she said, voice tight, “don’t forget the fireworks show at eight tonight on Wilhelm Bridge. If anything goes wrong, Miss Scorsese will absolutely kill me.”

I stared at the half-packed suitcase on my bedroom floor.

“Tiffany planned fireworks?” I asked.

Jillian hesitated. “Yes. She—she told me to make it happen.”

There was something strange in Jillian’s voice. Not excitement. Not pride.

Fear.

I should’ve trusted that.

But Jillian had done this before—five years ago, Tiffany had arranged a surprise fireworks show for me on the same bridge.

Back then, I’d felt chosen.

Maybe a part of me wanted to feel that one last time, like a fool touching a hot stove just to confirm it still burns.

“I’ll go,” I told Jillian.

“Thank you,” she whispered, like she was handing me a fragile thing.

6. Wilhelm Bridge

Wilhelm Bridge at night looked like a postcard: river reflecting city lights, tourist boats drifting beneath, the skyline glittering like Tiffany’s jewelry—beautiful and cold.

The crowd was thick. News crews set up cameras. People buzzed with excitement.

I felt the first real twist of unease.

Fireworks shows in Cloudridge were regulated. Permits were hard to get. Tiffany could get them, sure—but she didn’t do anything without purpose.

I called her.

Busy.

I called again.

Busy.

By 7:58 p.m., the crowd started chanting.

“They’re about to start!”

A woman near me said, “I heard Miss Scorsese planned the whole thing for her husband. Guess we’re lucky enough to watch too.”

My chest went tight.

Husband?

In public, Tiffany always maintained the image of being single.

So the husband couldn’t be me.

Right?

I pushed through the crowd to the north side—the best view.

And then I saw her.

Tiffany stood in the prime viewing spot, wrapped in Cedric’s arms like the world belonged to them. She tilted her head back, laughing at something he whispered, her eyes shining under the fireworks’ first burst.

Boom.

Color exploded overhead—gold, blue, white—showering the river with glittering reflections.

The crowd cheered.

My ears rang, not from the noise, but from the quiet inside me—the moment a truth finally stops hurting because it’s too obvious to deny.

A reporter stepped forward, microphone raised.

“Sir,” she asked Cedric, “how does it feel to be back in Cloudridge with Tiffany Scorsese?”

Tiffany looked up at him, anticipation bright on her face.

Cedric took the mic with a shy smile. “It feels like coming home,” he began—

And then our eyes met.

Tiffany froze.

Her lips parted.

“Matthew,” she breathed.

For a moment, the world held still. Even the fireworks seemed to fade into distance.

People turned toward her voice.

Cedric followed her gaze and frowned. “Who’s that?”

Tiffany’s throat bobbed. She didn’t know how to answer.

I stepped forward before she could.

I smiled—calm, controlled.

“My name is Matthew Marsden,” I said clearly. “I’m Miss Scorsese’s—”

Tiffany’s hand shot out like she could physically stop the words.

I finished anyway, turning the knife with a gentle twist:

“—cousin.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd—relief, curiosity, drama satisfied.

Tiffany’s expression relaxed instantly. She gave me the smallest nod—approval. Gratitude. Permission.

Not love.

Permission.

The fireworks kept blooming overhead.

Rain began suddenly, cold and sharp.

Tiffany pushed through the crowd, frantic. “Cedric’s not well—he can’t be in the rain—please make way!”

She shielded him with her body as they hurried toward a car.

And once again, I stood alone beneath the storm.

The rain soaked my hair, my coat, my skin.

I felt nothing.

Because numbness is what happens when your heart has been abandoned too many times.

7. “Thank You”

When I got home, I took a hot shower, letting water pound against my shoulders like it could rinse away five years.

When I stepped into the living room, Tiffany was there.

She hesitated like she wasn’t sure what version of me she’d find.

Then she said, “Thank you for stepping in out there.”

I stared at her.

She continued, “We’re still… secretly married. If things had come out, it wouldn’t have looked good for Cedric.”

Not for us.

For Cedric.

One day, I’ll find a way to make our relationship public, she’d said before, like our marriage was a PR project she might get to later.

I didn’t remind her there would be no “one day.”

She looked at me, suddenly suspicious. “But why were you even there?”

I held her gaze a long time.

Only when her eyes started to shift away—restless, guilty—did I answer.

“Jillian asked me to go.”

Tiffany blinked like she’d forgotten the fireworks had ever been for me.

“Oh,” she said.

Then, quickly—because Tiffany didn’t like sitting in discomfort—she shifted into promises.

“So… next week. Wait, no, I have a work trip. Next month for sure. I’ll take you then.”

I tilted my head slightly. “Let’s see when the time comes.”

She smiled, relieved by my easy tone.

She stepped forward and hugged me lightly—her arms cold, her perfume sharp, her body angled as if she was already walking away.

In that hug, I felt something finalize inside me.

The divorce wasn’t just legal.

It was emotional.

8. The Last Promise

Tiffany went on her business trip.

She brought Cedric.

On social media, they looked like a movie: candlelit dinners, museums, seafood at street stalls she’d always refused to visit with me.

She’d once told me, “I’m a CEO. I can’t eat at places like that. It’s beneath me.”

But with Cedric, she had no status to maintain.

She was just a woman chasing a feeling she mistook for love.

Three days before the divorce deadline, Tiffany finally came home.

She walked into the penthouse and paused like she expected it to greet her.

Instead, it was quiet.

Spotless.

Empty of warmth.

For the first time, I saw her notice what I’d been doing for five years: keeping the machine running, smoothing the edges, making her life effortless.

“Babe,” she said softly, and the word startled me. “You’ve worked so hard.”

It had been so long since she’d called me that, I couldn’t remember the last time.

She continued, “I was thinking of taking you to see the fireworks the day after tomorrow, but they’ve recently banned all firework displays.”

Her tone said what she didn’t: she didn’t want to go with me anymore. Cedric probably didn’t like it.

“Then don’t worry about it,” I said.

She paused, caught off guard. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“It’s just fireworks,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

She stared at me like I’d changed into someone unfamiliar.

After a long silence, she tried again—another substitute gesture.

“Then how about I take you to Parning’s Manor the day after tomorrow,” she said. “I heard you can see hot air balloons from there.”

I glanced at the calendar.

Valentine’s Day.

And also the day our divorce would finalize.

A poetic coincidence so sharp it almost felt cruel.

“Don’t you need to be with Cedric that day?” I asked.

Tiffany’s expression stiffened. “I’ve spent plenty of time with him. It’s time I spend some time with you.”

Even she seemed to hear how absurd that sounded.

But I didn’t call her out.

I simply nodded.

“Okay.”

One day left.

Tiffany sent me trivial messages that night—celebrity gossip, photos of stray cats, memes.

Like we were a normal couple.

We never had been.

Over those three days, I moved out piece by piece. I shipped my things to Newford. I finalized a lease agreement with a realtor. I arranged to rent out all one hundred properties under my name.

And I waited.

Not for love.

For the door to close.

9. The Mansion, the Balloons, and the Empty Room

The day before the divorce, Tiffany finally noticed movement.

She called me.

“Jillian said you’ve been moving,” she said, voice casual but sharp underneath.

“Yeah,” I replied, matching her tone. “Aren’t we supposed to go to the western suburbs? I like it there.”

Silence.

Then she said, cautiously, “If we’re setting off fireworks over there, that’s fine.”

I almost laughed. “Better not. You might get arrested.”

She sounded relieved—like she was grateful the plan wouldn’t inconvenience her.

“Then just wait for me there tomorrow night,” she said.

I hummed.

A notification popped up on my phone: flight booking confirmed.

Tiffany paused again, her instincts finally brushing against truth.

“You have to wait for me,” she repeated, slower this time. Like a plea.

“I will,” I said.

I didn’t specify how long.

The next night—Valentine’s Day—Tiffany didn’t come.

Jillian called, voice strained. “She had a meeting. She’ll be running late.”

On social media, Cedric was in a hot air balloon, Tiffany in his arms, their smiles bright against the sky.

I looked at the time.

My flight left in four hours.

The divorce became final in two.

There wouldn’t be time for a dramatic confrontation. Not that I wanted one.

I stood in Parning’s Manor—the mansion Tiffany had “given” me for the hundredth betrayal—and watched hot air balloons float above the river like colorful lies.

If Tiffany knew this was the last promise I would ever wait for her to keep, would she come back?

The question rose out of old habit.

Then it dissolved.

Because the answer didn’t matter.

With one hour left, my lawyer sent a message:

Congratulations, Mr. Marsden. Happy divorce day. The decree will be delivered shortly.

The divorce decree arrived in the final hour.

Just like that, five years became a document.

I picked up my suitcase and left.

Traffic to the airport backed up.

As the taxi crawled along the highway, I glanced out the window and saw Tiffany speeding in the opposite direction—toward the western suburbs.

Her car—a sleek silver streak—cut through lanes like she could outrun consequence.

Then she stopped.

She turned her head, scanning.

Searching.

As if she could feel me leaving.

My phone vibrated.

Tiffany calling.

I let it ring.

The light turned green. My driver accelerated.

Her car slipped backward into the past.

By the time I reached the airport terminal, I had seventeen missed calls.

At the check-in counter, the agent smiled. “One way to Newford?”

“Yes,” I said.

One way.

As I walked toward security, my phone buzzed with a text:

Tiffany: Where are you? The mansion is empty. Your things are gone.

I didn’t reply.

I dropped my phone into the plastic bin for the X-ray machine.

As it disappeared into the tunnel, I felt a strange lightness in my chest.

It wasn’t happiness.

Not yet.

But it was the absence of waiting.

And that was enough to breathe.

10. The Queen Notices the Crown Is Heavy

Tiffany Scorsese stood in the center of Parning’s Manor, surrounded by silence.

She had left Cedric mid-date with a flimsy excuse about a “family emergency” and driven like a woman being chased by a feeling she couldn’t name.

She expected to find me on the couch—patient, quiet, predictable.

She expected my soft smile. My gentle complaint: You’re late.

Instead, the rooms felt staged—furniture perfect, surfaces empty, like a model home.

No mug on the coffee table.

No jacket on the chair.

Upstairs, the closet was open.

Her side: designer dresses, suits, luxury.

My side: empty.

Panic hit her sharp and cold.

She called.

Voicemail.

“Matthew,” she snapped into the phone, voice trembling. “This isn’t funny. Where are you? Call me back.”

Her heels clicked on hardwood like gunshots.

Then she saw the envelope on the nightstand.

Plain.

Heavy.

She opened it and slid out the papers.

On top: a letter.

I kept my promise. I waited for you, but you didn’t come.
The one hundred properties are now managed by a rental agency. The income will be donated to the Cloudridge Orphanage.
I don’t need your money. I never did.
Enclosed is your copy of the divorce decree. It is final as of 6 p.m. today.
Don’t look for me.
You have Cedric now. Be happy.
—Matthew

Tiffany stared as if the words might rearrange themselves into something else.

Divorce.

Final.

Her gaze dropped to the legal document underneath.

Decree of Dissolution of Marriage.

Her signature sat on the petition line like a betrayal she’d committed against herself.

She remembered signing “another deed” while watching Cedric on TV.

She hadn’t read it.

She hadn’t even looked.

“No,” she whispered, dropping the papers as if they burned. “No, no…”

She called Jillian, screaming the moment her assistant answered.

“Where is he?”

Jillian’s voice was calm in the way calm can sound like judgment. “Miss Scorsese… I don’t know.”

“He tricked me,” Tiffany snapped.

Jillian paused, then said quietly, “He didn’t trick you. You signed without reading. You told me to notarize whatever Matthew handed over.”

Tiffany sank onto the bed, the crown suddenly heavy.

“Find him,” she hissed. “Check airlines. Trains. Find him now.”

Jillian hesitated. “Miss Scorsese… he’s not a fugitive.”

Tiffany’s voice cracked. “Then tell him—tell him there’s a legal issue. Tell him anything. Just get him to meet me.”

11. Newford

Newford wasn’t Cloudridge.

It rained more. Buildings were older. Streets smelled like wet brick and coffee.

I rented a small apartment above a bakery. Every morning at four, the scent of fresh bread seeped through my floorboards and woke me gently—like the world reminding me I was alive.

I got a job at a university library. Quiet work. Honest work.

I changed my number. Deleted my socials. Became a ghost with a paycheck.

For a month, I checked Cloudridge news out of habit.

One headline hit hard:

Tiffany Scorsese Announces Engagement to Childhood Sweetheart Cedric Gardner

The photo showed them at a gala. Tiffany looked flawless.

But her eyes…

Her eyes looked tired.

I closed the tab.

Not my problem.

Not anymore.

I started building a life that didn’t revolve around waiting.

Movies alone.

A bicycle along the river.

Cooking meals that weren’t designed to impress a woman who didn’t come home.

Then, one rainy afternoon, I noticed the black sedan outside the bakery—parked too long, too still.

By day three, I knew.

A private investigator.

Cloudridge doesn’t let go of what it thinks it owns.

On day four, I knocked on the sedan’s window.

The PI rolled it down.

“Tell her I’m not coming back,” I said.

He swallowed. “She’s on her way, Mr. Marsden. Her jet lands in an hour.”

I nodded once.

“Fine. Tell her to meet me at Riverwalk Park. Bench by the water. Sunset.”

12. Sunset Conversation

She arrived dressed to disappear—trench coat, sunglasses, hair tucked back.

But Tiffany didn’t know how to be invisible.

She stood like she owned the sky.

When I approached, she pulled off her sunglasses.

Her eyes were red.

“Matthew,” she breathed, like saying my name hurt.

She reached for me.

I stepped back.

“Hello, Tiffany.”

Her hand dropped. She swallowed. “You look… good.”

“I am good.”

Her jaw tightened. “Why did you leave like that? Without a word?”

“I left a letter and a decree,” I said. “That’s plenty of words.”

“You tricked me.”

The old Tiffany surfaced—rage as control.

“I handed you a paper,” I corrected gently. “You chose not to read it because you were too busy watching Cedric on TV.”

She flinched like I’d slapped her.

“I made a mistake,” she whispered.

“Which one?” I asked softly. “The first time you left me for him? The fiftieth? The hundredth?”

Her throat worked. “I stopped counting.”

“I didn’t,” I said.

She stared at the river. “Cedric and I… it’s not working.”

I didn’t respond with sympathy. I responded with truth.

“He’s not who you thought he was?”

She turned to me, desperate. “No. He’s—he’s selfish. He’s entitled. He—”

“He’s exactly who he always was,” I said calmly. “You just never looked closely because you were in love with the memory of him.”

Tiffany’s voice cracked. “I can fix it. Come back. We can remarry. I’ll sign a prenup. I’ll give you half of everything. I’ll make it public. I’ll tell the world you’re my husband.”

The offers spilled out like money from a broken vault.

I watched her—this woman who owned half a city and still couldn’t understand what love costs.

“No,” I said.

Her eyes widened, disbelief sharp. “Why?”

I took a breath. “I don’t hate you.”

Hope flickered.

“I just don’t love you anymore.”

The hope died.

“You killed it,” I continued, voice steady. “Lie by lie. Absence by absence. Deed by deed.”

Tiffany’s mouth trembled. She started to cry—ugly, heaving sobs, the kind she’d never allow in front of cameras.

“I’m lonely,” she choked out. “I have everything and I have nothing.”

I looked at her for a long moment.

“You have one hundred houses,” I said. “Go live in them.”

I turned to leave.

“Matthew!” she screamed. “If you walk away, I’ll destroy you. I’ll ruin your life!”

I stopped and looked back.

She was trembling, fear and rage tangled together.

“You can’t ruin a life that has nothing to do with you anymore,” I said quietly.

Then I nodded once, like closing a file.

“Goodbye, Tiffany.”

I walked away.

She didn’t follow.

13. What Queens Do with Regret

Back in Cloudridge, Tiffany broke up with Cedric the next day.

According to tabloids, it was dramatic: clothes thrown off the penthouse balcony, security escorting Cedric out while he shouted about “ungratefulness.”

People feasted on the spectacle.

Tiffany buried herself in work.

She bought more buildings.

Signed bigger deals.

Made colder decisions.

Her profits soared.

And every night, she went home to Parning’s Manor—alone.

She slept in the guest room where I used to sleep when she kicked me out of the master bed after arguments she pretended were “business stress.”

She hired someone to locate every gift I’d ever given her—things she’d dismissed as cheap.

A vintage watch I’d restored.

A scarf I’d knitted during a winter she barely noticed.

Pearl earrings simple enough to be real, not performative.

She displayed them in a glass case like a museum of regret.

Six months later, I received a letter in Newford.

Not from Tiffany.

From the Cloudridge Orphanage.

Dear Mr. Marsden,
We want to thank you for your continued donations from the rental properties.
We also want to inform you of a new anonymous donation. A new wing is being built for the children.
It will be named the Matthew Marsden Center for Arts.
The donor wishes to remain anonymous, but requested we send you the blueprints for approval.

I unfolded the blueprints.

The building was beautiful.

Quietly generous.

I stared at it a long time, then slipped it into a drawer.

I didn’t call her.

I didn’t write back.

I went downstairs to the bakery.

The owner—warm, brisk, always humming—smiled at me.

“Fresh croissants,” she said. “Two?”

“Two,” I replied.

One for me.

One for someone else.

Because sometime after Newford, I stopped living like a man in mourning.

I started living like a man in motion.

14. Fireworks, Years Later

Five years later, fireworks still exploded over Wilhelm Bridge every winter, bright and loud and transient.

In Cloudridge, Tiffany stood on a VIP balcony alone, the city glittering beneath her like an empire.

On her wrist, the vintage watch—stopped years ago—rested like a reminder that time doesn’t pause for regret.

“Happy anniversary,” she whispered to the night air.

In Newford, I watched fireworks too—but from a crowded park, sitting on a picnic blanket with grass stains and cheap paper plates.

A little girl sat on my shoulders squealing, “Boom! Again!”

“I see it,” I laughed. “I see it, sweetheart.”

My wife—no longer the girl with bright green hair she’d had in college, now a woman with calm brown curls and a laugh that felt like home—leaned against my shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I kissed her forehead.

“I’m perfect,” I said.

And for the first time in my life, I meant it without needing anyone else to sign for it.

The past was a ghost.

The future was a firework.

And the present—warm, loud, real—was enough.

15. Before the Crown

People in Cloudridge liked to pretend Tiffany Scorsese had been born wearing diamonds and a boardroom badge.

The truth was uglier, which is probably why she never told it.

She grew up in a house that looked like money from the outside—perfect hedges, perfect curtains, perfect silence. Inside, her mother Elena Fletcher ran the place like a courtroom. No raised voice. No sloppy emotion. Just rules so sharp you could cut yourself on them.

When Tiffany was nine, she spilled grape juice on a white rug in the formal sitting room. It wasn’t even a lot—just a small splash, a purple bruise on perfection.

Elena didn’t yell. She didn’t punish her.

She just stared.

And Tiffany, already learning the language of power, felt her throat tighten like she’d swallowed a stone.

“Elena?” Tiffany whispered, because her mother insisted on being called by her first name when company was around. Mom was too common. Too vulnerable.

Elena took a slow sip of tea. “Do you know what that rug cost?”

Tiffany shook her head.

Elena smiled in a way that didn’t warm anything. “It cost more than most people make in a year. That’s not the point.” She set the cup down. “The point is this: expensive things get forgiven when they’re useful. If you’re going to make a mess, you better make yourself valuable enough that no one dares punish you for it.”

Tiffany blinked, processing.

Elena continued, voice calm. “Do you understand?”

Tiffany nodded because she didn’t want the stare again.

That was Tiffany’s childhood in a sentence: be valuable, or be disposable.

So she became valuable.

She studied like her life depended on it—because, in her mind, it did. She learned how to negotiate by watching Elena dismantle people at dinner parties with compliments that sounded like knives. She learned that affection could be withheld like oxygen. She learned to smile even when she wanted to scream.

And somewhere along the way, she made a promise to herself: No one will ever leave me and get away with it.

Which, ironically, was exactly what happened.

16. Cedric Gardner: The First Love with Perfect Timing

Cedric showed up in Tiffany’s life the way storms show up over water—suddenly, dramatically, making everything else look dull by comparison.

He was a scholarship kid at her elite prep school, the kind who could talk his way into any room. He played piano at assemblies, basketball after class, and flirted like it was his native language. He wasn’t rich like Tiffany, but he moved like he belonged among rich people anyway.

Elena approved of him immediately.

Not because Cedric was good for Tiffany.

Because Cedric was good optics.

He made Tiffany look generous. Human. Romantic.

Tiffany fell hard, fast, and stupid—because nobody had ever loved her without attaching a price tag.

Cedric told her she was “different,” which is what every lonely person wants to hear.

He told her she was “real,” which is what every controlled person wants to believe.

And for a while, Tiffany let herself be a teenager instead of a weapon.

She snuck out with him. She laughed in ways Elena would’ve called unladylike. She wore hoodies and cheap sneakers and pretended she wasn’t heir to a real estate empire.

Then, the summer before college, Cedric disappeared.

Not slowly. Not with a fight. Not with closure.

He left a note in her mailbox and a voicemail that sounded like a man already running.

“Tiff… I can’t do this. Your mom hates me. Your world is suffocating. I’m going to make something of myself. Someday you’ll understand.”

Tiffany listened to that voicemail until her phone battery died.

Then she drove to his apartment and found it empty.

No goodbye. No explanation. Just absence.

She went home, walked into the formal sitting room, and stood in front of Elena like she was nine again.

Elena looked up from her tea. “He’s gone.”

Tiffany didn’t speak.

Elena set her cup down. “You were sloppy.”

Tiffany’s chest tightened. “I loved him.”

Elena’s expression didn’t change. “No. You loved the idea that someone could choose you without being forced.”

Tiffany’s hands curled into fists.

Elena leaned forward slightly. “Let this be your lesson. Love is leverage. If you don’t have leverage, you lose.”

That night, Tiffany cried until her face hurt.

And then she stopped crying—because she realized tears didn’t bring people back.

Money did. Power did. Ownership did.

So she built those instead.

17. How I Met the Queen

I met Tiffany Scorsese at a charity auction where I didn’t belong.

I was twenty-seven, a junior marketing director with a paycheck that still made me flinch when I saw the numbers. I’d grown up without much—without stability, without softness, without a mother who taught me anything except how to survive disappointment.

By the time I landed in Cloudridge, I’d convinced myself I didn’t need much. Just a job, a small apartment, and quiet.

The charity gala was my boss’s idea. “Networking,” he called it, like that word could justify tuxedos and overpriced champagne.

I stood near the bar pretending I was comfortable.

Then the room shifted.

You know how you can feel someone important enter before you see them? Like a change in air pressure?

That was Tiffany.

She walked in wearing a black dress that looked like it had been stitched directly onto her body. Her hair was glossy, her face calm, her smile precise. People turned toward her like sunflowers.

She didn’t scan the room like she wanted attention.

She scanned like she already owned it.

I watched her because everyone watched her.

Then she looked at me.

Just me.

And her gaze held like a spotlight.

She walked over, took a glass of champagne from a tray without looking, and said, “You don’t belong here.”

It wasn’t an insult.

It was an observation.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe I’m undercover.”

She smiled slightly. “No. Undercover people blend. You look like you’re waiting for an exit.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, mostly because it was true.

She tilted her head. “What’s your name?”

“Matthew,” I said.

“Marsden,” she added, reading my name tag.

I nodded. “And you’re Tiffany Scorsese, which I’m assuming you already know.”

Her eyes flickered with amusement. “I do.”

Then she asked, “Do you want to leave?”

I stared at her. “With you?”

“No,” she said, calm. “With yourself. We can walk out at the same time. People will assume we’re going somewhere important. No one will stop you.”

It was the strangest offer I’d ever gotten.

I should’ve said no. I should’ve stayed and networked and played the game.

Instead, I said, “Yeah.”

We walked out together like we were escaping a hostage situation.

Outside, the cold hit us. Tiffany exhaled and laughed—an actual laugh, not the polished one.

“You’re different,” she said.

I didn’t know then that “different” was her favorite trap.

18. Ninety-Nine No’s

Tiffany asked me to dinner the next day.

I said no.

She sent flowers the day after.

I returned them.

She showed up at my office lobby with coffee and that precise smile.

“I’m taking you to lunch,” she said.

“I’m busy,” I replied.

“I’ll wait.”

She did.

People at my office started whispering. The Queen of Cloudridge wanted that guy? The quiet guy? The guy who dressed like he was allergic to attention?

I didn’t understand it either, which is why I kept saying no.

Because Tiffany didn’t chase people. People chased her.

So why me?

At first, I thought it was a joke. A bet. A power play.

Then I started to realize something: Tiffany didn’t like being denied.

And my refusal wasn’t just a refusal—it was a mirror.

Every time I said no, I watched something in her sharpen. Not anger. Determination.

Like I was a building she couldn’t buy yet.

By the fortieth confession, she started getting more honest.

“You’re not impressed by me,” she said one night outside my apartment building.

“I’m impressed,” I admitted. “I’m just not… desperate.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t want desperate.”

“What do you want?”

She stared up at the dark windows of my building like she was trying to name something she didn’t understand. “I want someone who stays.”

I should’ve walked away at that point.

Because that wasn’t a romantic line.

It was a warning.

By confession ninety-nine, I was exhausted.

She stood in the rain outside my building, hair slick, shoulders squared, refusing to look pathetic even while water ran down her face.

“I’m not going to stop,” she said quietly.

“Why?” I asked, voice rough. “Because you want to win?”

She didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But also because when I’m with you, the city shuts up.”

That sentence hit me harder than her money ever could.

Because I knew what she meant.

Power is loud. It never stops demanding.

And for a moment, standing there, Tiffany looked like a woman who just wanted quiet.

So when she confessed the hundredth time—no flowers, no spectacle, just raw honesty—I said yes.

Not because I trusted her.

Because I wanted to believe people could change.

19. The Marriage Nobody Was Allowed to See

If you imagined marrying Tiffany Scorsese would mean a glittering wedding and magazine covers, you would’ve been wrong.

Elena Fletcher made sure of that.

The engagement itself was private. The ceremony was private. The whole thing was handled like a corporate merger.

We got married at a waterfront estate Tiffany owned but rarely visited. Jillian was there, her eyes sharp, clipboard in hand. A lawyer was there too, because of course there was.

The vows were short.

Tiffany’s hands trembled when she slipped the ring onto my finger—an imperfect moment that almost felt like hope.

Then Elena pulled Tiffany aside after the ceremony and said something I’ll never forget.

“I’m happy for you,” Elena said, voice sweet enough to fool strangers. “But understand this: the public cannot know. Your image is leverage. Don’t ruin it.”

Tiffany’s jaw tightened. “It’s my marriage.”

Elena smiled like Tiffany was adorable. “It’s your empire.”

That’s how the rules were made.

In public, Tiffany was single.

In public, I was “family.”

In public, we were never photographed too close.

At first, I thought it was temporary. A phase. A strategy.

Tiffany told me, “One day I’ll make it public.”

I believed her because I wanted to.

But “one day” is where rich people store the promises they don’t plan to keep.

20. The First Year: The Version of Tiffany I Almost Kept

For a little while, Tiffany tried.

At night, in the penthouse, when the city was far below and the headlines couldn’t reach her, she’d soften.

She’d sit on the couch in sweatpants, hair down, bare-faced, and watch dumb reality shows with me like she was practicing being normal.

She’d let me rub lotion into her hands after long meetings, her fingers finally unclenching.

Sometimes she’d wake up from nightmares and cling to me like she was afraid I’d disappear.

“Don’t leave,” she’d whisper, half-asleep.

“I’m here,” I’d say.

And I meant it.

I wasn’t perfect. I got irritated by her secrecy. I hated calling her mother “Aunt Elena” in public like we were playing some twisted game.

But I thought, This is what love looks like when someone powerful learns to be human.

Then Cedric Gardner returned.

And Tiffany turned back into a queen—because queens don’t admit they’re lonely.

21. Cedric’s Return and the Relapse

Cedric didn’t just “come home.”

He orchestrated it.

He made sure the media knew. He made sure the story was about nostalgia and destiny. He made sure the narrative painted him as the man who’d “found himself” and returned to reclaim the love he’d left behind.

And Elena Fletcher helped.

I didn’t realize that at first. But I started noticing things.

Elena suddenly invited Cedric to family events.

Elena suddenly started making comments like, “It’s wonderful to see old bonds restored.”

Elena started looking at Tiffany like she was waiting for her to correct a mistake.

And Tiffany… Tiffany lit up in Cedric’s presence like someone had plugged her into an old dream.

The first time Tiffany left me for Cedric, it was our anniversary.

The second time, she didn’t even pretend it was work.

The third time, she stopped apologizing.

That’s when the deeds started.

At first it was almost sheepish. “Here,” she’d say, sliding a folder across the counter like a peace offering. “I know I’ve been busy.”

By the tenth time, she didn’t even look at me while she handed me the papers.

By the fiftieth, she treated it like routine—like she’d invented a new marital system: betrayal, compensation, repeat.

I made my forgiveness rule to survive it.

Once, I told myself, is a mistake.

Twice, maybe a crisis.

Ninety-nine times?

That’s a choice.

I just wasn’t ready to admit whose choice it was.

22. Jillian’s Loyalty

Jillian Ferguson was the only person in Tiffany’s orbit who acted like I existed as more than a prop.

She was sharp, calm, and quietly exhausted—the kind of assistant who made miracles happen without getting credit.

One night, after Tiffany disappeared again, Jillian found me in the penthouse kitchen making tea I didn’t want.

“You don’t have to keep accepting this,” she said softly.

I didn’t look up. “I don’t have a choice.”

Jillian’s jaw tightened. “You always have a choice. She just trained you to forget that.”

I laughed once. “And you? What choice do you have? You work for her.”

Jillian’s eyes flicked toward the hallway. “I work for her, yes. But I don’t worship her.”

That sentence startled me.

Because no one ever said anything like that about Tiffany.

Jillian hesitated, then lowered her voice. “I’ve seen her ruin people without meaning to. Not because she’s evil. Because she’s… careless. Power makes you careless.”

I stared at Jillian.

She swallowed. “If you ever decide to leave… do it cleanly. Don’t threaten. Don’t negotiate. Don’t give her an opening.”

That night, I went to bed with Jillian’s words rattling around my skull like coins.

Do it cleanly.

I didn’t know then how literally I would take that advice.

23. The Plan: How to Leave a Queen

The hardest part wasn’t deciding to divorce Tiffany.

The hardest part was accepting that she wouldn’t “let” me.

Not physically. Tiffany wasn’t violent.

But emotionally? Tiffany’s entire identity was control. She didn’t handle things leaving her orbit.

So I had to leave in a way she couldn’t disrupt.

I met with a lawyer in a nondescript office building downtown. The lawyer was a calm woman named Sloane Patel who didn’t blink when I explained the situation.

Secret marriage. Public single image. Properties transferred as compensation.

Sloane tapped her pen against her notepad. “Does she love you?”

I stared at the wall. “She loves what I represent. Stability. Loyalty. Someone who stays.”

Sloane nodded like she’d heard this story before. “Then she’ll panic when you leave.”

“She won’t sign,” I said.

Sloane’s smile was small. “Everyone signs something eventually. We just need the right moment.”

That’s when Jillian’s advice snapped into place.

Clean.

No negotiations. No drama. No emotional courtroom.

Just… done.

We drafted the divorce agreement. We planned the filing timeline. We arranged for notarization.

The only missing piece was Tiffany’s signature.

And I already knew when she’d be most careless.

When Cedric was on her mind.

24. The Hundredth Forgiveness

Parning’s Manor wasn’t just a mansion.

It was a symbol.

It was the kind of property Tiffany used to prove she could have anything. Even what other rich people couldn’t buy.

I chose it intentionally.

Because if Tiffany signed that without reading, it would prove exactly what my marriage had become: something she handled like paperwork.

I prepared the folder.

Property transfer on top. Divorce agreement underneath.

On the day Cedric’s return played on the office television, Tiffany’s eyes glued to the broadcast, she signed without hesitation.

And for the first time in five years, I felt peace settle in my bones.

Not joy.

Peace.

Because the decision was made.

The waiting was ending.

25. Fireworks: The Lie in the Sky

When Jillian called about Wilhelm Bridge, I told myself the fireworks were for me.

Some naïve part of me wanted to believe Tiffany still had a thread of intention tied to our marriage.

But as soon as I saw the news crews, I knew.

This wasn’t a private gesture.

This was a public performance.

Tiffany didn’t want fireworks with me. She wanted fireworks with Cedric—and she wanted the city to witness it.

When I saw her wrapped in Cedric’s arms, her face lit up by explosions of color, something inside me finally stopped resisting.

I wasn’t losing her.

I’d lost her years ago.

I was just the last one to accept it.

The reporter’s microphone. Cedric’s smug smile. Tiffany’s whispered “Matthew.”

My “cousin” line wasn’t just a cover.

It was a funeral.

I watched Tiffany protect Cedric from the rain like he was fragile and precious.

She didn’t look back at me once.

Later, when she thanked me for saving her image, I realized something even colder:

Tiffany didn’t see me as a husband.

She saw me as a risk.

And she was grateful I managed it for her.

26. Cedric Behind Closed Doors

Cedric was charming in public. That was his superpower.

In private, he was small.

Not physically. Mentally.

He complained about the penthouse staff. He pouted when Tiffany worked late. He made little jokes about how “cute” it was that she still kept me around.

“You know,” he said once, swirling whiskey in Tiffany’s living room like he owned the place, “most women would’ve gotten rid of the spare husband by now.”

Tiffany’s expression froze. “Don’t call him that.”

Cedric laughed. “Relax. It’s not like he matters.”

I wasn’t in the room. Jillian told me later, voice tight, like she regretted being the messenger.

Tiffany snapped at Cedric more after that. Not because she defended me.

Because she hated being reminded of the mess she’d made.

Cedric didn’t love Tiffany.

He loved Tiffany’s empire.

And Tiffany—slowly, painfully—began to notice.

But noticing is not the same as changing.

27. The Last Three Days

The last three days of my marriage were the strangest.

Tiffany started texting me like we were normal.

Celebrity gossip. Stray cats. Memes.

I’d never had that kind of casual intimacy with her in five years.

Which told me everything: this wasn’t love.

This was anxiety.

Her instincts sensed movement in the air, like an animal feeling a storm before it hits.

While she sent me memes, I shipped my clothes to Newford.

While she sent cat photos, I signed rental management contracts for the one hundred properties.

While she sent gossip, I arranged the donations—monthly proceeds to the Cloudridge Orphanage.

People assumed I did it to be noble.

The truth was simpler: I didn’t want Tiffany’s money to poison my new life.

If those properties were going to mean anything, they would mean something clean.

Something that didn’t require me to stay.

28. Valentine’s Day: Waiting for Someone Who Won’t Come

Parning’s Manor on Valentine’s Day looked like a movie set.

Ocean in the distance. Hot air balloons drifting above the river. Sunlight turning the windows gold.

It should’ve felt romantic.

Instead, it felt like standing in a museum of my own patience.

I sat on the couch with my suitcase near the door and watched balloons rise.

I wondered which one Tiffany was in.

I wondered if she remembered what day it was.

I wondered if she’d ever loved me in a way that didn’t require me to be quiet.

Then my lawyer’s message came through.

Happy divorce day.

The decree arrived.

My marriage ended in an envelope.

When I left the mansion, I didn’t slam the door.

I just closed it softly.

Because I didn’t want Tiffany’s absence to be the loudest thing in my life anymore.

29. The Highway: The Last Time Our Paths Crossed

The traffic jam on the way to the airport was almost funny.

Cloudridge always looked glamorous from above, but on the ground it was still just cars and impatience and red lights.

I sat in the taxi, calm.

Then I saw Tiffany’s silver car speeding in the opposite direction.

She cut through lanes like she could outrun reality.

She stopped suddenly—gridlock caught her too.

She turned her head, scanning my lane.

Searching.

As if she could sense me leaving.

My phone buzzed.

Tiffany calling.

I let it ring.

Then the light turned green.

The taxi moved.

Tiffany’s car slipped backward into my rearview mirror like a chapter closing.

I didn’t look back.

30. The Empty Mansion: Tiffany’s Panic

Tiffany arrived at Parning’s Manor expecting to find me waiting.

She had her apology ready—charm mixed with regret, the formula that always worked.

But the house was dark.

Empty.

Her heels clicked across hardwood like gunshots.

She ran upstairs, flung open closet doors, stared at my empty side like it was an insult.

Then she found the envelope.

The divorce decree.

Her own signature.

The realization hit her in waves:

She hadn’t been tricked.

She’d been careless.

Careless with paperwork. Careless with promises.

Careless with a man who stayed even when she didn’t deserve it.

And for Tiffany Scorsese, carelessness was the one flaw she couldn’t tolerate—because it meant she wasn’t in control.

That’s why she sent the PI.

Not because she suddenly understood love.

Because she couldn’t stand losing.

31. Newford: A City That Didn’t Care Who I Was

Newford didn’t care that I had one hundred houses in my name.

Newford didn’t care that I’d been married to the Queen of Cloudridge.

In Newford, I was just a man buying coffee at a bakery and shelving books at a university library.

And that anonymity felt like medicine.

The bakery owner—her name was Rosa—learned my order in a week.

“Two croissants?” she’d ask with a knowing smile.

“Two,” I’d confirm.

Sometimes I ate both. Sometimes I shared one with whoever happened to be nearby, because kindness feels easier when it’s not performative.

I started riding a bike along the river, letting cold air burn my lungs clean.

I slept deeper.

I laughed more.

I still thought about Tiffany sometimes—not with longing, but with a strange disbelief.

How could someone own half a city and still be empty?

Then I met Leah.

32. Leah Hart: The Girl with Green Hair

Leah Hart was a graduate student in the history department, the kind who argued with professors for fun and volunteered at community centers on weekends.

The first time she spoke to me, she’d been hunting for archives, impatient and bright.

“I’m looking for nineteenth-century periodicals,” she’d said, pushing her green hair behind her ear. “Professor Langdon says you’re the only one who knows where they are.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Professor Langdon is dramatic.”

Leah grinned. “So are you. You look like a man running from something.”

That line startled me, because it echoed Tiffany’s first observation.

But Leah’s tone wasn’t predatory.

It was curious.

I led her to the archives. She followed, talking the whole way like silence was a crime.

“You’re not from here,” she said.

“No.”

“Where?”

“Cloudridge.”

Leah whistled. “Oof. That place is basically a real estate cult.”

I snorted. “Something like that.”

She tilted her head. “You look happier than most people I’ve met who escaped cults.”

“I’m working on it.”

She smiled like she understood more than I’d said.

Over the next few weeks, Leah kept showing up. Sometimes for archives. Sometimes for no reason she admitted.

We started drinking coffee on Tuesdays, sitting by the river, talking about books and politics and the way people break themselves trying to be loved by the wrong person.

Leah didn’t treat me like a mystery to solve.

She treated me like a person.

Which, after Tiffany, felt almost unfamiliar.

33. The PI and the Park Bench

When Tiffany’s PI parked outside the bakery for three days, I didn’t panic.

I didn’t run.

I was done living like someone else owned my choices.

So when the PI told me Tiffany was coming, I chose the meeting place.

Riverwalk Park. Bench by the water. Sunset.

I wanted the truth in open air.

Tiffany arrived in a trench coat and sunglasses, posture rigid, trying to look like she wasn’t unraveling.

But her eyes gave her away: red, exhausted, raw.

“Matthew,” she said, voice cracking like she hadn’t practiced it enough.

She reached for me. I stepped back.

“Hello, Tiffany.”

“You look good,” she whispered, as if my peace offended her.

“I am good.”

She inhaled sharply. “Why did you leave without telling me?”

I stared at her. “I left a letter. And a divorce decree.”

Her jaw tightened. “You tricked me.”

I shook my head. “No. You ignored what you signed because you were watching Cedric on TV.”

Her face flinched like the truth was a physical blow.

“I made a mistake,” she whispered.

“Which one?” I asked gently. “The first time you left me? Or the hundredth?”

Tiffany’s throat bobbed. “I stopped counting.”

“I didn’t.”

She stared at the river like it might forgive her.

Then she said, voice smaller, “Cedric and I… it’s not working.”

I didn’t smile. I didn’t gloat.

I just said, “It was never going to.”

Tiffany turned to me, desperate. “Come back. We can remarry. I’ll make it public. I’ll give you half of everything—”

“No,” I said.

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

And that’s when I said the sentence that finally broke the last chain:

“I don’t love you anymore.”

Tiffany started crying—real crying, not elegant. Ugly, heaving, human.

“I’m lonely,” she choked out. “I have everything and nothing.”

I watched her, feeling an old tenderness flicker and die.

“You have one hundred houses,” I said quietly. “Go live in them.”

I turned to leave.

“Matthew!” she screamed. “If you walk away, I’ll destroy you!”

I stopped, looked back, and saw fear wearing the mask of power.

“You can’t ruin a life that has nothing to do with you anymore,” I said.

Then I left.

Tiffany didn’t follow.

Because deep down, even she knew: chasing me would require humility.

And Tiffany Scorsese didn’t know how to kneel.

34. Cedric’s Exit and the Museum of Regret

Back in Cloudridge, Tiffany detonated her life like she did everything—dramatically.

Cedric moved into her penthouse within days of my disappearance, acting like he’d finally “won” what he’d always deserved.

Then Tiffany started noticing how he treated the staff.

How he complained about the chef. How he expected the driver to wait outside in the rain. How he rolled his eyes when Tiffany worked late.

She began to hear his words differently:

“Babe, why do you care about that orphanage thing?”
“Babe, you’re obsessed with your ex.”
“Babe, you don’t need anyone. You’re Tiffany Scorsese.”

One night, Cedric said, “He’s a loser, Tiff. Let him go.”

And Tiffany, tired and furious and finally honest, snapped:

“Get out.”

Cedric laughed, thinking it was a game.

Tiffany screamed.

Security escorted him out.

Tabloids called it a meltdown.

Tiffany called it necessary.

She returned to Parning’s Manor alone and started collecting the pieces of me she’d dismissed.

The watch I restored. The scarf. The earrings.

She put them in a glass case like a museum exhibit titled: Things I Didn’t Understand Until It Was Too Late.

It didn’t bring me back.

But it made her feel like regret was productive.

35. The Orphanage Letter

Six months after the park bench conversation, the orphanage letter arrived.

I sat in my apartment above the bakery, rain tapping the windows, and unfolded the paper.

A new wing. My name on it.

The donor anonymous.

But I knew.

Tiffany was the only person on earth who would build a monument to guilt and call it generosity.

I stared at the blueprints for a long time.

They were beautiful.

And that, weirdly, hurt.

Because it meant Tiffany was capable of care.

She’d just never aimed it at the right thing.

I put the letter in a drawer.

I didn’t call her.

I didn’t thank her.

Because gratitude would’ve been a rope, and I was done tying myself to her.

36. Learning to Be Loved Without Being Bought

Leah didn’t fall in love with my silence the way Tiffany did.

She fell in love with my honesty.

It happened slowly—over coffee, over long walks, over nights where I admitted things I’d never said out loud.

“I stayed too long,” I confessed once, sitting on a park bench with Leah as the river moved steadily beside us.

Leah shrugged gently. “You stayed because you hoped. That’s not a crime.”

“It feels like one,” I admitted.

Leah turned toward me. “Did you learn?”

“Yes,” I said. “That love isn’t something you earn by suffering.”

Leah smiled, soft. “Good.”

When I told her about Tiffany—about Cloudridge, the properties, the secret marriage—Leah didn’t look impressed.

She looked sad.

“She treated you like an accessory,” Leah said quietly.

I nodded.

Leah took my hand. “You’re not an accessory.”

That sentence was so simple it almost broke me.

Because it was the opposite of everything I’d lived.

37. Five Years Later: Two Fireworks

On the fifth anniversary of the day I left Cloudridge, fireworks lit up the sky over Wilhelm Bridge again.

In Cloudridge, Tiffany stood on a VIP balcony alone.

She wore a black dress that looked expensive enough to buy small countries. Her assistants hovered nearby, but no one dared stand too close.

On her wrist, the vintage watch—stopped, useless, symbolic.

She stared at the fireworks with a face that didn’t move much.

People still called her the Queen of Cloudridge.

They just didn’t realize queens can be lonely.

Tiffany whispered, “Happy anniversary,” to the night air.

No one answered.

In Newford, I sat on a picnic blanket in a crowded park.

The air smelled like popcorn and damp grass. Kids ran around with glow sticks. People laughed without checking stock prices.

A little girl sat on my shoulders squealing, “Boom!”

“Yeah,” I laughed. “Boom.”

Leah—now my wife, hair now a calmer brown, smile still bright—leaned against me.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

I kissed her forehead. “I’m perfect.”

Because I was.

Not rich like Tiffany.

Not powerful.

But free.

And the present—warm, loud, ordinary—was finally enough.

THE END