Cyrena's POV
I stepped out of my car and onto the pavement, the warm sun casting a gentle glow on my face. I took a deep breath, feeling the cool breeze fill my lungs. As I stepped into the firm, I was immediately surrounded by a flurry of activity. The air vibrated with the hum of cameras and the murmur of reporters, their eyes fixed on me.
Reporters surged forward, their questions overlapping. The scent of fresh coffee and perfume wafted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of sweat from the crowd. The bright lights of the cameras and flashes illuminated the space, and I felt a gentle pressure of microphones being thrust into my face and the gentle tug of hands on my arm as reporters tried to get my attention. I shaded my face from the cameras, fighting my way into the firm.
"Can you comment on the news about your divorce with billionaire CEO, Mr. Easton Black?" one reporter asked, their voice piercing above the din.
The words stung, like a slap to the face, and my teeth ground together as I pushed my way through the crowd. The security guards formed a tight circle around me, their broad shoulders a shield against the reporters probing questions.
"Is it true you only married Mr. Black because of his money, that's why you haven't agreed to the divorce yet?" another reporter shot.
"Mrs. Black, what's your connection with Mr. Thomas Benson?"
"What are these allegations that you're not the legal owner of Benson's Heritage Weave?"
With the help of the security, I was able to sneak through the crowds, finding my way into the firm. As I stepped in, all gazes lingered on me. But then my gaze landed on Miranda, who stood with a wide grin plastered on her face, she wasn't alone – she came with both her daughters.
"What's all this?" I asked, my fists clenched as I moved closer to her.
"I just want the whole world to see who you truly are," Miranda's voice dripped with venom, her words laced with a sly smile.
"This won't change anything." My face burned, and my fists tightened at my sides.
"Give up already, we already know the truth, and we have proof." Johanna chimed in, the youngest of Miranda's illegitimate daughters.
"Dad can never leave us with nothing," her voice like a shrill whistle.
"But he did," I snapped.
"You lying bitch!" Camila, the eldest, protested.
"Mum..." I paused for a while, trying to process my thoughts, knowing fully well that Miranda doesn't deserve to be called that, as she never treated me like her daughter.
"Miranda, you and I know the truth, stop feeding them with lies."
"You manipulated my husband into willing everything in your name" Miranda rose to her voice as tension intensified. Miranda knows better trying to tarnish my reputation.
"He wouldn't have if you were faithful to him" I said, my voice laced with conviction, my words tumbling out in a rush of anger and hurt.
After taking me in, I grew more close to my dad than Johanna and Camila, we shared similar memories and the bond - that's what Miranda envied.
"How dare you!" Camila stormed at me but was abruptly stopped by Miranda.
"I let you step all over me, Miranda, but not anymore... Security!" I called.
"This isn't over yet, we'll take whats rightfully ours" Miranda threatened, storming out of the firm alongside her daughters.
My throat constricted, and I bit the inside of my cheek, the metallic taste of blood was a sharp reminder to hold it together and not break down, not in front of my staff. I turned to find them staring at me before everyone quietly returned to work.
I quietly headed to my office, aiming to find comfort, yet the reporters questions echoed in my mind, their voices like a persistent drumbeat, each beat pounding out a different doubt. I pondered what to do, but first, signing those divorce papers would finally bring peace to my mind.
The door creaked open as my secretary walked in with a warm smile.
"This was sent in," she said, her voice gentle as she placed the document on the desk.
"Let me know if you need anything Cyrena." She turned to leave, her eyes sparking with a friendly concern.
"Thank you" I voiced out.
I reached out for the document, slowly reading through it, it contained my divorce agreement with Easton, which we both had to sign. I found a pen, a stinging sensation pricked at the corners of my eyes as I signed the final page, the pen scratching across the paper like a knife cutting through my heart.
It was done, but I needed to submit the papers to Easton to equally do the same. I left the office heading home, as I stepped into the mansion, I was greeted by the familiar sight of sleek, modern decor.
The high ceilings and expansive windows let in a flood of natural light during the day, but now, at night, the soft glow of table lamps and floor lights illuminated the space. The walls were adorned with contemporary art pieces , and the floors were polished to a high shine.
As I moved through the house, I noticed the lack of personal touches, the absence of warmth and coziness I've grow accustomed to. The sudden realization that this wasn't my home anymore hit me, I'm no longer Mrs Cyrena Black. I was ready to embrace my new beginning as a divorced woman and the peace within urging to explore new things.
I waited anxiously for Easton, knowing fully well he might not come home but something in me decided to wait. My footsteps echoed through the hallway as I made my way to my room, as I've already packed my luggage.
It was past 12 am and Easton wasn't back yet, I felt a wave of disappointment
"Was I hoping he'd come back?"
The sudden hush noise coming from within alerted me that someone was inside the house, I hurried downstairs but something about the sound caught my attention. As I stepped into the living room, my eyes adjusted to the light.
Easton lay on the couch, his head tilted back, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I rushed to him, concern etched on my face.
"Easton?" I called out, but he didn't respond. I reached out to touch his shoulder, and that's when I noticed how still he was.
I hadn't expected Easton to come home and not this late - it was 2 am, and I had planned to leave, leaving the signed divorce papers on his study room if he didn't come back.
As I was about to turn and leave, his hand shot out, grasping my arm and pulling me down to him. Our bodies clashed, and before I could react, his lips crashed onto mine in a fierce kiss. I was taken aback, and for a moment, I didn't know how to respond.
We broke free from the kiss, our eyes locked on each other, my breath heavy as I fought to process what had happened
But I felt the familiar taste of his lips, the roughness of his touch, I realized that something was off. Easton wouldn't kiss me but he did and his kiss was different, almost desperate. And that's when I smelled it, the unmistakable scent of whiskey. Easton was drunk.