Chapter 4
Amelia snapped awake, annoyance prickling at her nerves. Forcing herself to stay calm, she recited the recipe: 'Start with chicken stock as the base, add ginger, garlic, and a splash of lemon juice. Simmer on low heat with a bit of honey. It needs to cook slowly—don't rush it.'"
Hanging up, she flopped back into bed but couldn't fall asleep. Her brain kept dragging up old memories—Eric clutching his stomach in pain, her simmering soup in the kitchen, sitting beside him spoon-feeding it bit by bit. She shook her head hard, trying to yank herself out of the past.
Just as she was about to drift off, her phone rang again. It was Mrs. Collins.
"Ma'am, I followed your instructions and made the broth. I even got him to eat some, but he spat it out after one bite and said it tasted wrong... What do I do?"
Her voice was shaking, and Amelia could hear Eric grumbling in the background. And that was it—like a match dropped in gasoline, fury exploded inside Amelia.
What did Eric think she was? His on-call housekeeper? They were divorced for god's sake! And here she was being dragged into his late-night drama over a bowl of broth? Wasn't Chloe supposed to be perfect? Why not let the new girlfriend flaunt her domestic skills?
She sat bolt upright and snapped, "Mrs. Collins, put him on the phone."
"Uh, ma'am, I—he—"
"Put. Him. On," Amelia's tone brokered no argument.
A beat of muffled shuffling later, his hoarse voice came through. "Amelia, the broth... it tastes off. Just awful..."
"Eric!" Amelia finally exploded, all her pent-up emotions from the past three years gushing out.
"Listen carefully. One—I'm not your personal chef. I don't owe you anything, especially not at three in the damn morning! Two—we're divorced. DIVORCED. You get that? I'm your ex-wife, no longer glued to your life. Three—you think the broth is gross? Then don't eat it! Or better yet, have your precious Chloe make it. Isn't she your everything now? See if she'd get up at this hour to make you your healing broth nonsense!"
She paused, breath heaving, words laced with years of resentment. "Eric, the only reason you're still clinging on is because I used to love you—and you milked that for all it was worth. But not anymore. Now you mean nothing. Your stomach hurts? Too bad! You won't die. Just don't call me for every little thing!"
Before he could reply, she hung up and blocked his number without hesitation. Then she shut off her phone, tossed it aside, and buried herself under the covers.
Finally, it felt like she could breathe. All that bitterness, all that suffocating weight—it was gone, replaced by a strange, liberating lightness.
Back at the villa, Eric stared at his phone in disbelief, face frozen in shock. Then fury surged up, burning away the leftover confusion. Amelia had really gone there—yelling at him? Hanging up?
The atmosphere in the master bedroom was suffocating. He clenched his aching stomach, face pale and twisted.
A broken glass and scattered documents littered the floor, casualties of his earlier frustration.
From the doorway, a trembling Mrs. Collins asked, "Sir... should I bring the broth back?"
"No! Dump it! Throw all of it out!" Eric barked, the anger spilling over. He glanced around the room, seeing traces of Amelia in every shadow, and it only twisted the knife deeper. The curtains she picked, the little plants she arranged, the face mist she left on his nightstand...
All those things he used to shrug off—or downright dislike—suddenly annoyed the hell out of him.
"Mrs. Collins!" he snapped, voice sharp. "Go get all her stuff from the closet—no, not just that. Everything she bought, used, or so much as touched—bag it and toss it out. I don't want even a scrap left behind!"
Startled, Mrs. Collins flinched but didn't question him. She just nodded quickly and scurried off.
Some time later, she came back with another maid, both of them holding several bulging trash bags. She carefully asked, "Sir, it's all sorted. That includes the ties and cufflinks she got you, and your favorite house clothes..."
Eric glanced at the bags, and something clenched hard in his chest. A wave of panic and emptiness washed over him so fast it caught him off guard.
"Wait!" he blurted out before his brain caught up.
Mrs. Collins looked at him, confused, but he muttered stiffly, "Even if she bought them, she used my money. Why the hell should I throw them out? I don't just burn cash for fun! Put everything back where it was."
The two maids exchanged a look—the kind that carried silent understanding—and wordlessly carried the bags away again.
Eric slumped back into bed, stomach still aching, but the real mess was in his head.
He didn't even know what was going on with himself. All he felt was that this huge, fancy villa had never been so cold and empty—it was hard to breathe.
Just then, his private phone buzzed.
He glanced at the caller ID—Chloe's agent.
Still simmering with frustration, he picked up and snapped, "What now?"
The voice on the other end was shaky with panic. "Mr. Reeves, it's bad! Something serious just happened with Chloe—"
Elsewhere, in Samantha' apartment, the mood couldn't be more different.
She was lounging on the couch with her tablet when she suddenly jumped up and shoved it in Amelia's face while she was in the middle of washing up.
"Amelia, look! Karma's real—Chloe's in trouble!"
Amelia wiped her face and leaned in. Some major car pile-up had gone down on the expressway.
Casualties had hit eleven, nine people were missing, and over sixty were injured—huge news, one of River City's worst road disasters in the last two decades.
It'd been over 24 hours since the crash, and recovery operations along the Clearbrook River were still underway. The whole country was watching, hoping for miracles. But online, Chloe's fans had launched into an all-out war with angry bystanders.
Everything blew up after someone leaked a video from the scene. It showed Chloe walking away from her car, unscathed, before being helped straight onto a stretcher—meanwhile, other severely injured people were left there bleeding without help.
The contrast was jarring. Netizens started questioning—why was a minor injury getting priority over critical ones? Were celebrity privileges at play again?
Her fans wouldn't have it. They instantly went nuclear, calling every critic a troll, reporting posts, spamming comments—until even normal users started getting fed up, and the backlash hit hard.
[I've been done with her fake sweet girl act for ages.]
[Using her fame to cut the line, exploiting a relationship drama, now this. She's finished.]
[Nice going, Miss Harper. You've officially crashed your own career.]
[Guess the guy from the Reeves family who backed her didn't have great taste either.]
Samantha was having the time of her life, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. "This is what she gets! That's what happens when you mess with someone else's husband. Let's see how Eric saves her now!"
Amelia frowned slightly as she scrolled through the posts. One of the accounts doing the heavy lifting on the exposé side had a familiar ring to it. If she remembered right, it was run by an old gossip journalist Samantha used to be close with.
She glanced over at Samantha, a hint of curiosity in her eyes.
