Klara tore through her room as if she were trying to rip the walls apart. Clothes hit the bed, the floor, the open suitcase—none of it mattered. Her hands were shaking, not from sadness, but from pure, blistering rage.

She yanked a dress from the hanger so hard the hook snapped.

“Two months,” she muttered, breath sharp, chest rising fast. “Two damn months and she thinks she can toss me out like trash.”

She shoved the dress into the suitcase, pressing it down with her palm. Her jaw clenched so tightly her teeth hurt.

Roman used to worship her. Used to wait at her door, waiting for any hint that...