Where Freedom Begins

Soon after I came back to the country, someone slapped me right across the face in broad daylight, yelling that I was a mistress.

A crowd of reporters closed in, pelting me with questions about whether Chandler Armstrong, CEO of Armstrong Industries, was keeping me as his mistress.

I was stunned speechless for a moment, but then I pulled out my wedding photo with Chandler from seven years ago and held it up.

"What are you talking about? I'm his wife!"

The crowd went silent, and the woman who'd slapped me turned white as a sheet.

Only then did I finally get it: while I'd been overseas, Chandler had been openly involved with an actress, and everyone in his social circle had already decided she was the future Mrs. Armstrong.

Today, they all came expecting to confront a mistress—only to find out that I was actually his wife.

Later, Chandler tried to justify it. "Alina, you've been out of the country for years. I'm a man, and I have needs. She's just a B-list actress; it's not like she threatens your position. Why should you be upset? Just let it go," he said. "Don't make a scene."

I handed him the divorce papers. "You make me sick."

"Alina, after I'm gone... please… take care of yourself."

On the white hospital bed, my grandmother weakly reached out and stroked my face.

I sniffled, nodding through the tears that threatened to spill.

At 11:00 PM that night, the last family member I had left passed away.

I took out my phone and sent Chandler Armstrong back in the country a message. [My grandmother passed away.]

A short while later, a reply came through. [I'm sorry for your loss. She's just gone to heaven.

[Can you manage things on your own over there? If you need help, you can call Geoffrey—he's also in Damaria.

[I have some important matters to handle these next couple of days and can't be with you. I'm really sorry, Alina.]

His tone was still gentle, unchanged after seven years.

The only difference, perhaps, was that his words had grown fewer and he hardly called anymore.

I remembered the first three years I had spent abroad—Chandler couldn't go a day without calling me a dozen times.

We married at the height of our passion, but after that, we lived in separate countries. Through it all, Chandler had always been my rock.

I never questioned him; I just thought maybe he was busy. After all, he ran the huge Armstrong Industries, and there was no way he could have time to chat with me every day.

I turned off my phone and handled my grandmother's affairs alone.

As I stared up at the clear blue sky, a feeling of longing to return to the country began to take root in me.

It had been seven years.

From coming to Damaria alone to study and later taking care of my grandmother's medical needs, Chandler and I had been separated for seven