Chapter 17
A few days after the unexpected meeting with Chloe, Elena found herself walking through a quiet park, the leaves crunching beneath her heels, the evening breeze brushing against her face like a soft reminder—she had survived.
Not just the betrayal. Not just the shame. She had survived herself—the version of her that once clung desperately to a crumbling marriage, to hollow promises, to a man who never saw her worth.
Now, she was finally letting it all go.
Later that evening, Sebastian called.
“Still at the office?” he asked.
“No, I took a walk instead.”
“You sound lighter.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I saw Chloe.”
He was quiet for a second. “That must’ve been a lot.”
“It was. But not in the way I expected. She’s broken. Regretful. I think she thought I’d be bitter, ready to fight. But I’m not. I’ve got better things to do than stay angry.”
“You’ve grown,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re not looking back anymore.”
“No,” Elena said. “I’m not.”
Then, after a pause: “Want to come over? I’m making pasta.”
“Is that code for microwaved noodles?”
“Very funny. No—it’s real pasta. Maybe a little overcooked. But made with love.”
“I’ll bring wine,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice.
That night, Sebastian joined her at her apartment. They laughed, they ate, and when the meal was done, they didn’t need to say much. The quiet was comfortable. Warm.
When he leaned in to kiss her, it wasn’t rushed. There was no fire to burn the pain away—just a gentle heat, slow and certain, the kind that stays.
Afterward, they sat curled on the couch. Elena rested her head against his chest, and for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.
“Do you think people like us get second chances?” she asked quietly.
Sebastian wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t think this is a second chance, Elena. I think this is your first real one.”
Her heart swelled at that.
They didn’t talk about the future that night. Not about love, not about what this all meant. It didn’t need labels.
What they had was unfolding naturally. Not forced. Not dramatic. Just right.
The next day, Elena walked into her office and found a surprise waiting.
A small package on her desk.
Inside was a delicate silver bracelet with a note:
“To remind you that even the broken things can be beautiful again. — S.”
She stared at it for a long time, her fingers running over the smooth metal.
She’d thought she had everything with Andrew—status, stability, love. But it had all been an illusion.
Now, with less certainty and fewer guarantees, she had something far more valuable: peace, self-worth, and the slow bloom of something real.
And she wasn’t letting go of that for anyone.