Chapter 7 - Reclaiming the Mirror
That evening, I didn't go straight to my apartment. Instead, I drove past the city limits and headed toward the old Victorian house I had inherited from my maternal grandmother—a place I hadn't visited in years because Brandon had always insisted it was “too drafty” and “unlivable,” convincing me to sell it shortly after our wedding.
Fortunately, the sale had fallen through at the last minute due to a zoning dispute, and it had sat empty, managed by a local trustee.
I unlocked the heavy oak front door and stepped inside.
Dust motes danced in the amber light of the setting sun filtering through the bay windows. The air smelled of aged cedar, old books, and quiet dignity. It didn't smell like the sterile, hyper-modern penthouse Brandon had forced me to live in—a place designed to impress his business associates rather than feel like a home.
I walked upstairs to the master bathroom and stood in front of the ornate, antique oval mirror hanging above the porcelain sink.
For seven years, every time I looked in a mirror, I saw a failure. I saw a woman whose body was defective, whose career was a distraction, and whose life was defined by the man who had abandoned her for being less than adequate.
I reached up and unbuttoned my white coat, letting it slip from my shoulders and drop to the floor. Underneath, I wore my professional blouse and slacks. I looked at my reflection.
At thirty-nine, there were fine lines around my eyes—laugh lines, and lines earned from grueling twenty-four-hour shifts in the hospital saving lives. My hair was tied back in a simple knot. There was no makeup hiding my face.
I wasn't broken.
I never had been.
My body was healthy. My mind was sharp. My career was dedicated to healing others, even when my own life had been quietly sabotaged by the people I trusted most.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
An incoming text message from an unknown number.
Claire, please. Let me explain. Lauren lied to me about everything. I’m staying at the Carlyle Hotel. Call me. We can fix this.
I stared at the screen for three seconds.
May you like
Then I blocked the number.
I didn't feel anger. I didn't feel sadness. I felt an overwhelming, magnificent sense of closure. I dropped the phone onto the marble countertop, turned away from the mirror, and walked downstairs to open the windows and let the fresh spring air fill the house.
