Chapter 2
Michael walked over to the dining table, grabbed a napkin, and slowly wiped the soup stain off the edge.
He moved so slowly, like he was suppressing his emotions.
Finally, he couldn't hold it in anymore. "Can you stop making a scene? What does a single photo even prove?"
"It proves you've been lying to me for three years." I replied coldly.
He tossed the napkin into the trash. "What did I lie to you about? Didn't I give you money? Didn't I make you my wife? In the past three years, have I ever treated you badly?"
"You never spent New Year's with me," I said.
Michael looked at me, his lips curling in impatience.
"It's some stupid holiday, just going through the motions. Is it really that big of a deal?" he asked.
"A stupid holiday?" I echoed.
I nodded, repeating it softly. "Yeah, a stupid holiday you've spent thirteen years faking with another woman."
Michael was silent for a moment.
"If you're really going to make such a big deal out of it, fine, I'll spend it with you from now on," he said.
"There won't be a 'from now on,'" I replied.
I walked into the study and pulled out the document I'd had ready for a long time from the drawer.
When Michael saw [Divorce Agreement] printed on the cover, his expression instantly hardened.
"When did you prepare this?" he asked.
"A month ago," I replied.
He picked up the agreement and flipped through a couple of pages, his finger stopping at the section about property division.
There was one line written there: Whatever's in our own names stays with us. There's nothing to split.
He looked up at me. "So what does that mean?"
"It means I'm not after your money," I replied.
"Anna, when you married me, your dad's factory had gone under, and your family couldn't even afford a decent place. I paid off your debts, took care of your mom's hospital bills, and got your brother out of the country..."
He spoke each word slowly, really driving it home. "And now you're telling me you don't want anything? What, you think you haven't owed me enough? Or are you trying to act all noble?"
"If you think I owe you, then I'll work to pay you back," I said, locking eyes with him. "You can write up an IOU for me."
He looked like I'd stabbed him, and he slammed the agreement shut.
"You're too worked up tonight. I'm not going to talk about this now. We'll deal with it when you've cooled off," he said.
He tossed the agreement back into the drawer.
Just then, his phone buzzed.
A WhatsApp message appeared on the screen from [Claire.]
She sent: [Mike, the fireworks tonight were so beautiful, like when we were eighteen. Goodnight.]
Michael grabbed his phone and walked out to the balcony.
He closed the balcony door behind him.
Through the glass, I saw him typing, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
I'd seen that smile before.
Three years ago, on the day we got our marriage certificate, he'd smiled at his phone like that.
I pulled open the drawer, took out the divorce agreement again, and set it right in the middle of the dining table.
I weighed it down with his car keys.
The next day was New Year's Day.
Michael headed to work early that morning.
On his way out, he glanced at the divorce agreement on the table, didn't say a word, grabbed his car keys and left the agreement sitting there.