Chapter 3

Chloe's POV

With shaking fingers, I pulled the plane ticket out of my pocket.

Printed on it was the foreign city Logan had chosen for me.

He had arranged a tiny apartment and a meager monthly allowance there, his most "respectable" way of throwing away his ex-wife.

The corner of my mouth twitched into a bitter smile. I gripped the paper.

Rip.

I tore the ticket to shreds.

I didn't need his charity.

Without looking back, I grabbed my suitcase and left.

I found a cheap, run-down motel on the edge of the city.

I dragged my heavy suitcase up the creaky stairs, opened it, and pulled out a yellowed envelope hidden deep in the inner lining.

The edges of the envelope were frayed. Over the last seven years, I had lost count of how many times I had opened it in the dark.

My fingers trembled as I poured out the three items inside.

The first was my wedding ring.

On the inside of the gold band, our wedding date was clumsily engraved.

On our wedding day, Logan had slipped it onto my finger himself. The crowd applauded, though his mother sat in the front row looking absolutely furious.

Back then, I was naive enough to believe that if I just loved him unconditionally, we would eventually build a beautiful life together.

Now I saw it for what it was, a pathetic, one-sided joke.

The second item was a tiny lock of baby hair.

On the day Mason was born, while the Vance family was busy signing the discharge papers outside, a kind nurse had secretly snipped this lock of hair and pressed it into my sweaty palm.

It was the only piece of Mason I had left.

The hair was so fine and soft. I had kept it hidden in prison for seven long years, protecting it like it was my very life.

The last item was a photograph taken at the visitor's booth.

In the photo, I was wearing a baggy prison uniform, my face pale and my smile forced.

I had just been brought back from the prison ward after giving birth. My C-section incision hadn't even healed, and my legs were shaking so hard I could barely stand.

Logan's mother stood next to me, holding the baby as far away from me as possible with an expression of pure disgust, cursing at me under her breath.

But back then, just getting a glimpse of my baby made me feel like all the suffering was worth it.

I closed my eyes, letting out a soft, mocking laugh.

Without a second thought, I threw the wedding ring and the lock of baby hair into a cold metal trash can.

I clicked my lighter three times before a weak blue flame flickered to life.

I dropped the flame into the can. The moment the fire touched it, the soft baby hair shriveled into a black speck.

A pungent, burnt smell immediately filled the cramped, dark motel room.

I crouched on the floor, hugging my knees, staring blankly at the dancing orange flames.

For seven years, during those countless sleepless nights in my cell, that lock of hair was the only thing that kept me sane.

Whenever the prison lights went out, I would press a damp towel over my face to muffle my tears, while clutching that tiny bit of my son's warmth in my palm.

I had told myself over and over: Logan is waiting for me. My baby needs his mother. I took the fall for Logan, so the Vance family will always keep a place for me.

But today, that door had been slammed in my face.

As the fire engulfed the ring, the bright gold metal turned black, and the engraved wedding date was swallowed by the ashes.

Looking at the ruins, I decided to keep the damaged photograph.

I didn't throw it into the fire.

Mason still owed me a "Mommy." The Vance family still owed me an apology.

I would keep this photo until the day I couldn't hold on anymore, until the day I was finally free.

The metal can gradually grew cold.

What once represented love and blood was now nothing but a pile of black soot.

I picked up the can and dumped the ashes into the trash. When I wiped the bottom of the can with a tissue, a layer of stubborn black soot stained my fingers.

My phone vibrated on the table.

A flight confirmation message popped up on the screen.

Passenger Name: Chloe Vance.

Destination: Erlangen, Germany.

Departure Time: October 15, 2030.

The ticket Logan gave me was designed to exile me so his mistress could take my place as his wife.

But the ticket I bought for myself was a one-way trip to my final destination.

During my third year in prison, I happened to find a medical journal in the prison library. At the very end of an article, the address of a highly advanced neurological research lab in Erlangen was listed.

That was also the year I was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The brain injury I suffered years ago when I fell off a cliff to save Logan had finally deteriorated to its absolute limit.

I suffered from agonizing, daily headaches and occasional temporary blindness.

I knew I didn't have much time left.

I had copied that address into my diary, filling an entire page with it.

I turned off the bathroom faucet. The black soot swirled down the drain. My hands were clean, but my heart was completely hollow.

The envelope on the table was still open, revealing a corner of the visitor's booth photo.

The peeling white walls of the prison booth looked exceptionally cold under the dim motel light.

I pulled out a piece of tissue, carefully wrapped the photo, and tucked it deep inside my suitcase.

Outside the window, I could hear the noisy footsteps of other motel guests, mixed with the cheap television static from next door.

I turned off the light and lay down on the narrow, rock-hard bed.

I packed my pill bottle into the purse I would carry tomorrow.

Before falling asleep, I checked in for my flight on my phone.

The next morning, I landed at the airport in Erlangen, Germany.

I dragged my heavy suitcase out of the terminal. The damp, freezing wind rushed in through the exit, causing my stomach to cramp violently.

I pulled the yellowed diary page from my pocket, the address written in faded pencil.

The handwriting had become blurry from years of rubbing.

I clutched the paper tightly, like it was my only lifeline.

The road in front of the motel in the old district was extremely narrow. At the front desk, a stack of yellowed registration forms sat under a glass counter.

The owner eyed me suspiciously from head to toe before sliding a key across the counter.

"End of the hall, second floor. Hot water is only available before 10 PM."

I bent over and began filling out the registration form.

In the emergency contact box, I wrote down Vanessa's name and phone number.