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Chapter 3: The Walnut Tart

That evening, Preston returned to the penthouse. Walking arm-in-arm with him, followed by a team of porters carrying designer luggage, was Vanessa.

“Vanessa had a slight concussion from the fall you caused,” Preston said coldly, glaring at me. “Her townhouse has stairs, so she will be staying in the guest suite here until she recovers.”

Vanessa smirked, adjusting her designer sling. “I’ll only be here a few days. You don’t mind, do you, Blair?”

“Not at all,” I said, flipping a page in my Vogue magazine. “Stay as long as you like. I’ll be moving out soon anyway.”

Preston frowned, momentarily thrown off. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just a joke,” I said mildly.

The next morning, I walked into the grand kitchen. Preston and Vanessa were already seated at the marble island, drinking espresso.

“I saw you were sleeping so soundly, Blair, so I told Preston not to wake you,” Vanessa purred, playing the role of the diligent housewife.

Preston didn’t even look up from his iPad.

Vanessa stood up and pushed a delicate porcelain bowl toward me. “I made breakfast. A special European dessert porridge. Try it.”

I looked down at the bowl. Resting clearly at the bottom of the creamy mixture were crushed, roasted walnuts.

I am severely, deathly allergic to walnuts. Even a trace amount can trigger anaphylaxis within minutes. Preston knew this. We carried EpiPens in every car we owned.

I pushed the bowl away. “I don’t eat walnuts.”

Vanessa immediately slumped her shoulders, her eyes welling with dramatic tears. “I worked so hard on it… Preston, maybe I should just pack my bags and sleep on the street. Even when I try to make peace, she hates me.”

Preston slammed his iPad down. He stood up, walking menacingly around the island. “Blair, Vanessa woke up at 6:00 AM to cook for you. Stop acting like a spoiled brat and eat the damn food.”

I stared at him in utter disbelief. “Preston, you know I am deathly allergic to walnuts. You are asking me to eat something that could kill me to appease her ego?”

Preston’s face twisted into a cruel, impatient scowl. “I am the provider of this house, Blair, and I am ordering you to stop this theatrical nonsense and eat the breakfast.”

Vanessa began to dramatically drag her suitcase toward the front door. “It’s fine, Preston! I’ll leave!”

Panic flashed in Preston’s eyes. He lunged toward me, grabbed the back of my neck with a bruising grip, picked up the spoon, and violently forced the porridge into my mouth.

“I don’t believe a few nuts are going to kill you! Stop faking it!” he roared, forcing me to swallow.

He released me, turning his back instantly to chase after Vanessa. “Vanessa, wait! She ate it! See?”

My airway began to close before he even reached the front door.

My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the kitchen tiles, clawing at my throat as my trachea swelled shut. Tears streamed down my face as I violently gasped for air that wouldn’t come.

Preston glanced back at me, rolling his eyes. “See? This is exactly what I mean. Always the dramatic victim.”

He wrapped his arm around Vanessa and walked out the front door, leaving me suffocating on the floor.

The world faded into a terrifying, suffocating black.

I woke up five hours later in the sterile, glaring light of the emergency room. A heart monitor beeped rhythmically beside my head.

The doctor pulled down his mask, looking grim. “You are incredibly lucky your housekeeper found you and called 911, Ms. Kensington. Another three minutes, and you would have been brain-dead. Did your husband not realize the severity of your allergy?”

I couldn’t speak. My throat was raw and swollen. I just stared at the ceiling.

Preston wasn’t there. He arrived an hour later, looking slightly pale but aggressively defensive. He sat by my bed, refusing to meet my eyes.

His phone rang. He hesitated, then answered it, stepping into the hallway. “Vanessa, no, she’s fine. Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.”

He walked back in and handed the phone to me. “Vanessa feels terrible. She wants to apologize.”

I put the phone to my ear.

“Blair,” Vanessa’s voice hissed through the speaker, dripping with venomous triumph. “I knew exactly what was in that bowl. I did it on purpose. And Preston still chose to comfort me instead of riding in the ambulance with you. Tell me, who holds the power now? Report me to the police if you want, but you have zero proof.”

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I calmly lowered the phone and threw it with all my remaining strength against the hospital wall. It shattered into a dozen pieces.

Preston jumped back, furious. “Are you insane?! She was trying to apologize!”

“Get out,” I rasped, my voice sounding like broken glass.

“Fine,” Preston sneered. “I’ll hire a nurse. You sit here and think about your atrocious behavior.”

He turned and walked away.

I checked myself out against medical advice two hours later.

Chapter 4: The Bonfire

I didn’t return to the penthouse. I hired a private car and drove straight to our sprawling estate in the Hamptons—the property I had painstakingly decorated over the last three years.

Every piece of furniture, every painting, every curtain had been selected by me. Hanging in the grand foyer was a massive, custom-painted portrait of Preston and me from our “wedding day.”

I realized now that Vanessa was pregnant the exact week that photo was taken.

I grabbed a heavy bronze fireplace poker and swung it with all my might into the center of the canvas. The frame splintered, crashing to the floor in a cloud of dust.

The estate staff rushed into the foyer, terrified.

“Take down every single photo of that man in this house,” I ordered, my voice trembling with adrenaline. “Pile them on the back lawn.”

I walked into my massive walk-in closet. Preston had bought me millions of dollars worth of Birkin bags, Cartier jewelry, and Chanel gowns over the years to “appease” me whenever he was acting distant.

I packed every single designer item into trash bags. I listed the entire collection on an elite luxury consignment portal, directing the $1.5 million payout directly into the bank account of a domestic abuse charity.

Then, I walked to the backyard. A massive pile of photo albums, framed pictures, and love letters sat in the center of the manicured grass.

I went to Preston’s private wine cellar and emerged with three bottles of $5,000 vintage Bordeaux. I popped the corks and poured the dark red wine entirely over the pile of memories.

I struck a long match. I dropped it onto the pile.

The fire roared to life, devouring the fake smiles, the forged documents, and the hollow promises. I stood in front of the flames, the heat warming my face, and drank a glass of wine straight from the bottle. Tears silently tracked down my cheeks, evaporating in the heat of the fire.

By the time Preston realized I was ignoring his calls and panicked enough to drive to the Hamptons, the fire was nothing but smoldering ash.

He sprinted across the lawn, dropping to his knees when he saw the charred remains of the custom, glass-enclosed conservatory he had built for me.

“Blair! What have you done?!” he screamed, his eyes wide with horror.

I sat calmly in a teak patio chair, swirling a glass of wine. “Just doing some spring cleaning, Preston. Replacing the old with the new.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” he yelled, grabbing my shoulders. “You burned down the conservatory! I built that to prove my love for you!”

“Did you?” I smiled coldly. “Or did you build it to distract me?”

Preston froze. A profound, terrified realization dawned in his eyes. He looked at the ashes. “Blair… do you know something?”

I stood up, brushing a speck of ash off my coat. “I know that the blue star you bought me is going to fall out of orbit tomorrow, according to the observatory. I suppose nothing lasts forever, Preston.”

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