Chapter 3: Packing Up the Past

As for what the barrage said—that I was about to be kicked out of the Carter family—

Rather than wait to be shoved out the door, I figured it was better to leave with some dignity. Three years of marriage was more than I’d ever expected, all things considered.

My mind spun, running through worst-case scenarios. If my parents found out the Carters had divorced me, they’d probably turn their backs. I’d be on my own for the first time in my life, no safety net to catch me.

With that in mind, I dragged my battered old suitcase from the closet and eyed the row of designer handbags and jewelry he’d bought me over the years. I liked them, sure, but would they even fit? I’d watched enough episodes of Hoarders to know not to overpack in a crisis.

Knowing Jackson, if I left anything behind, he’d just toss it without a second thought. So I did what any modern woman in my position would do—I hopped on my laptop, found a buyer online, and traded everything for cash before sunrise, transferring the money to my bank account with a trembling finger.

Staring at the extra zeros on the screen, I felt a brief, hollow thrill—enough to buy me time, maybe a fresh start somewhere new. Then the emptiness crept back in, and I curled up in bed, the glow of the phone the only light in the dark.

The next morning, I was pulled from sleep by a kiss—soft and startling. Jackson, who’d vanished the night before, was suddenly there at my bedside, pressing gentle kisses along my hairline, like nothing had changed.

I blinked up at him, heart racing for a reason I didn’t want to name. People say when a man’s guilty, he’ll try to make it up to his wife—flowers, breakfast, extra tenderness. I wondered if that’s what this was. The thought chilled me to the bone. I pressed my lips together and turned away from his touch, feigning sleep.

Jackson had changed into a crisp new suit, the kind that cost more than my old car. I sniffed, half-hoping for a whiff of perfume that didn’t belong to me. All I caught was a faint, metallic scent—blood?

My brow creased. Was that... could the real match’s scent be like blood? The idea was so strange, it almost made me laugh.

Jackson’s lips traced my ear. He frowned, clearly dissatisfied, and squeezed my hand, pinching my chin to turn me back for another kiss.

But then he paused, his fingers rubbing over mine with a puzzled, almost anxious touch.

He asked suddenly, “Where’s the ring?”

My heart skipped. Damn—I must’ve sold it along with the rest last night. But with a new match in his life, why would he care about the ring?

I kept my voice casual. “Maybe I left it in the bathroom.”

To keep him from pressing further, I leaned in and kissed him, hoping to distract him the way I always had when I wanted to avoid an argument.

But Jackson, for once, wasn’t having it. He turned away, his voice tight: “In the bathroom? I’ll go look.”

I reached out, but he was already gone, the echo of his steps sharp in the hallway.

A moment later he came back, face like a thundercloud. “It’s not there.”

Of course it wasn’t. I hadn’t even finished the divorce papers yet, and I was already running out of lies.

I tried to sound convincing: “Maybe it’s somewhere else in the house. I’ll look for it later.”

But he crossed his arms, the set of his jaw telling me he wasn’t letting this drop. “Look now.”

Me: “...”

I had no choice. I shuffled into my slippers, shivering as my bare feet hit the hardwood, and started making a show of searching under furniture, in junk drawers, behind the couch cushions.

The next thing I knew, Jackson had scooped me up like I weighed nothing. "You’ll catch cold—go grab your sneakers, please."

I blinked at him, surprised by the flash of protectiveness. I tugged on my sneakers, and he set me back down, jerking his chin toward the hall. "Alright, go look."

I made a half-hearted circuit of the house, checking all the obvious spots, but of course, the ring was gone. Jackson watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, his voice cool as marble: "Aubrey, where is the ring?"

After three years, I knew his moods like the back of my hand. When he called me by my full name, it was never good.

I ran a hand through my hair, nerves jangling. “Uh, maybe I accidentally lost it outside...”

He was still wearing his plain silver band. My finger felt oddly naked. Funny how a missing ring could make you feel more invisible than ever.

Jackson just looked at me, silent, his eyes searching mine for answers.

I hesitated, then tried to soften things, reaching for his sleeve like a lifeline: “Jackson, I’m sorry...”

He didn’t move, just stared down at me, and for a moment I saw something like hurt flicker behind his eyes.

Not knowing what else to do, I gently tugged at his hand, then shook his finger in a playful, pleading way.

The tension in his face faded. With a heavy sigh, he pulled me in, his arms warm around me: “The mark’s faded again. Let me redo it.”

I exhaled, relieved that the subject was dropped. I tipped my head back, baring my neck for him, and let him claim me again.

Jackson stayed until noon, then left in a rush, muttering something about a meeting as he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder.

That afternoon, my phone buzzed with a message from Jackson’s mom—a photo attachment. It was a chemistry compatibility report, the Carter family’s gold-embossed letterhead at the top.

I opened it, my stomach sinking. Jackson’s name was there, and an Omega’s name I didn’t recognize. The compatibility score: 99%. Practically perfect. Numbers I could never reach, no matter how hard I tried.

The barrage was going wild:

[Wow, Jackson’s mom took action herself. What a divine assist!]

[Great, the placeholder’s getting evicted. Let the real match in!]

I ignored it. Instead, I called the lawyer I’d found on Yelp last night, the one with the five-star reviews and quick turnaround time. I asked if the divorce papers were ready.

She was fast—probably the fastest in Dallas—and since I wasn’t asking for alimony or a slice of Jackson’s estate, the contract was ready by dinner. She emailed me the forms with a digital signature link—so modern, it almost made the whole thing feel like a shopping return. I printed out the stack of papers, feeling the weight of every page. I waited for Jackson to come home, rehearsing my goodbye in my head, wondering if he’d even care.

At seven, I heard his key turn in the lock.