Chapter 4

When the call ended, I finally let my body collapse backward on the bed. Somehow, I drifted into sleep—if it could even be called that. Just hours of darkness pressing over me until the sun burned into my eyelids and I woke to a world that felt heavier than the night before.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

I dragged myself out of bed, dressed, and made my way to Attorney Ramos’ office. The secretary immediately recognized my name and ushered me inside. Papers were prepared, printed, slid across the desk.

“This is the preliminary petition,” the lawyer explained gently. “Once you sign this, we begin.”

My hand trembled as I picked up the pen.

I signed, then I walked out.

I was gripping the folder of documents so tightly my knuckles ached by the time I reached home. The walk from the car felt unusually long—each step heavy, every breath thick.

I pushed open the front door then I saw Sofia.

She stood in the middle of the living room beside the tall glass cabinet where Damien displayed the awards he was proud of—mine included. And in her hand was my trophy. Model of the Year. The award I bled and starved and fought for.

She was holding it as if it were nothing.

“Oh, sister,” she drawled when her eyes met mine. “You’re finally home. I was just admiring… this little trophy of yours.”

Her voice was dipped in honey, but her eyes—acid.

My grip tightened around the folder. “Put it down, Sofia.”

“Oh, I will,” she said lightly.

And she loosened her fingers. Deliberately.

The trophy hit the floor with a sharp, sickening crack—metal bending, glass splintering.

I froze.

“You—what the hell, Sofia?!” My voice ripped out of me. “That’s mine!”

Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward—not to hurt her, but to get to my trophy, the pieces of it scattered like parts of myself. She angled her body in front of it as if blocking me was another game to her.

“Move,” I hissed.

She didn’t. So I shoved her.

Harder than I intended.

Sofia stumbled back with a sharp gasp, her hand flying dramatically to her shoulder as if I had hurled her across the room.

“Ow—Elena!” she whimpered, voice already trembling. “Why would you push me like that?”

I blinked at her, stunned. “Don’t start, Sofia. You ruined my trophy! You dropped it on purpose—”

Her face twisted, lips wobbling. Then, like a switch flipped, she burst into tears. Loud. Exaggerated. Painful sobs that echoed through the whole damn house.

And right on cue—

“What happened here?” The real Damien.

He hurried in from the hallway, eyes darting between us—Sofia clutching her shoulder and crying, me kneeling beside broken glass and metal on the floor.

“She—she pushed me!” Sofia cried louder, crumbling into his chest like she was the victim of the century. “I just wanted to… to look at her trophy, and she—she hurt me!”

“That’s not what happened!” I snapped. “She dropped my trophy. On purpose! She—”

Damien raised a hand, silencing me without even looking my way. His gaze was already fixed on the shattered trophy, then on me, disappointment tightening his jaw.

“Elena,” he said sharply, “it’s just a trophy. You didn’t have to get physical.”

Just a trophy. My throat closed.

The one I earned after years of training, starvation, bruises, tears. The one I had worked for while he told me to quit, to slow down, to choose him over my career. The one that represented everything I lost for him.

Before I could say a word, Sofia sniffled pitifully and whispered, “I… I didn’t think she’d still hate me. I thought she had changed since we were kids. She always bullied me before, you know…”

I stared at her. The audacity.

“I NEVER bullied you—”

Damien’s expression hardened. “Enough.”

That word landed like a slap. He wrapped an arm around Sofia, guiding her toward the door as if she were some fragile porcelain doll.

“Come on, Sofia. Let’s get you checked. That fall looked bad.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpered, clinging to him. “I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I just wanted to bond with my sister…”

My chest hollowed out.

Damien glared at me one last time before leading her out.

The door slammed shut. And suddenly the house was too quiet—except for the sound of my own breathing, uneven and breaking.

I sank to the floor.

For a long moment, I just stared at the broken trophy. At the pieces of a life I used to have. A life I gave up willingly… because he asked me to. Because he said he wanted me home, wanted a family, wanted me by his side instead of on runways.

I picked up a bent piece of the metal, brushing off dust with trembling fingers.

Memories flooded—bright lights, cameras, applause, my name announced, the trophy placed in my hands.

Then his voice.

“You don’t need to work anymore, love. Stay with me. I’ll take care of you.”

I believed him. Stupid.

I wiped my cheeks, not realizing when the tears even started. Carefully, I gathered the pieces—every shard, every fragment—and placed them on the table. My hands shook as I tried fitting them together, like maybe if I fixed this, I could fix myself.

While I was bent over the table, still crying quietly, I heard footsteps.

“Love?”

Marc. The fake Damien.

He rushed toward me, breathless with performative concern.

“Did she hurt you?” he asked gently, touching my arm. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I would have protected you.”

I opened my mouth—ready to snap, ready to scream that I knew who he was, what he was doing, what game they were all playing—but the words lodged in my throat.

What was the point? I was leaving anyway.

So instead I pulled away, not even looking at him. “I’m fine,” I said quietly.

He hovered, unsure, trying again. “Elena… love, look at me—”

But I didn’t. I focused on the broken trophy, ignoring the man who kept calling himself my husband… when he wasn’t,

Later that night, after hours of silence pressing into the house, after Damien still hadn’t returned, after the ache settled deep in my bones, I finally picked up my phone.

I called my manager.

Her voice crackled through the line, surprised. “Elena? It’s been a while.”

“About the project you mentioned…” I breathed out, staring at the documents on my bed—the divorce papers. “I’m ready. Let’s start again.”

She paused. “Are you sure? The conditions still stand. No child for three years. And you’ll be away most of the time—training, shoots, international tours. It’s not going to be easy.”

“I know,” I whispered.

A long silence stretched between us. Then I said the words that felt like cutting ties with my old life—

“Yes. I accept the conditions.”