Chapter 1
When I, Emily Lane, opened my eyes, James Hartley was sliding a stack of papers across the table toward me.
The room was quiet, with only the soft hum of the air conditioner. Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a faint shadow across his profile. He was wearing a tie I'd never seen before: navy blue with subtle, intricate patterns.
"Emily," he said, his voice cold and controlled, "she's pregnant. She needs me to make things official. Let's get a divorce."
He paused, then added, "Name your terms."
I stared at the Divorce Settlement Agreement James handed me. Its edges were so sharp and perfect they looked cut with a blade. Then I looked up into his handsome but cold eyes.
The digital calendar on the wall showed December 18th, our wedding anniversary.
Last night, his phone was off the whole time. I waited at the table, staring at the cold dishes, until 3 AM.
He finally came back. And he brought the divorce papers with him.
The air conditioner kept humming, sounding like a dying bug.
I looked down at the agreement. On the first page, the title was printed in bold: "Divorce Agreement." Below it were our names: James Hartley and Emily Lane. Side by side, like two strangers who had nothing to do with each other.
"Who is she?" I asked, my voice calmer than I expected.
James didn't answer right away. He walked over to the window, turning his back to me. The sunlight outlined his suit jacket in gold.
"It doesn't matter," James said.
"The woman who's pregnant with your child isn't important?"
"Only to you."
I laughed. Really laughed. My laughter cut through the silence, sharp and jarring in the quiet room.
"James," I said, slowly getting to my feet, still clutching the papers, "today is December 18th. It's our third wedding anniversary. Do you remember?"
He turned around, his expression unchanged. "I remember."
I continued to ask. "So you picked today on purpose?"
He answered nonchalantly. "A coincidence."
"To hell with your coincidence," I snapped, tossing the agreement onto the coffee table. The pages fanned out. His sharp, bold signature was already on the last page, the ink pressing through the paper.
All that was left was for me to sign.
James looked at the scattered papers and frowned. He hated mess, hated losing control. That was the only thing I was sure of after three years of marriage.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"That's none of your business."
"How old?"
"What?"
"The baby. How many months?"
James was silent for a few seconds. "Three months."
Three months. I did the math in my head. Three months ago was September. I remembered: James had gone to Westbridge for a two-week business trip. He said it was urgent.
So that's how it was.
"So what are you planning to do?" I sat back down. My legs felt a little weak.
"It is all in the agreement," James said, gathering and straightening the scattered pages before sliding them back to me. "The house and car are yours. We will split the savings equally, and I will give you another 670,000 dollars."
He said it all in a steady, businesslike tone, like he was reading off a financial report.
"670,000 dollars for three years of my marriage," I said.
"Call it whatever you want."
"What's her name?"
Instead of answering, James said, "Emily Lane," calling me by my full name for the first time, his voice carrying a warning.
"I have the right to know. Legally, I'm still your wife. At least for now."
We locked eyes. His deep blue eyes had once captivated me, but now they held nothing: no guilt, no apology, not even impatience. There was only calm, icy indifference.
"Claire Summers," he finally said.
"That's a nice name," I said, nodding. "How old is she?"
"Twenty-four."
Five years younger than me. Perfect.
"What does she do?"
"Emily..."
"I asked what she does," my voice cracked through the silence, ringing out in the room. I even surprised myself with how loud I was.
James froze for a second. He definitely didn't expect me to snap. In his mind, I'd always been the kind of wife who kept her head down and never spoke up.
"She's a dance teacher," he said.
"What kind of dance?"
"Ballet."
I nodded. She was a ballet dancer. She must have had a killer figure. She was young, she could dance, and now she was pregnant with his kid. The perfect upgrade.
"Do you love her?" I asked.
It was a stupid question. But I asked anyway.
James didn't respond. He glanced at his watch, a subtle move, but I noticed it.
"I've got a meeting at ten," he said. "Take a look at the agreement. If you have any questions, have your lawyer reach out to me. Once you've signed, let me know and we'll go file the paperwork."
Without another word, James turned and headed for the door.
"James," I called out, stopping him.
He paused at the door, not turning around.
"Last night, I made your favorite, barbecue ribs. And grilled sea bass. I simmered the corn chowder for three hours," I said.
His shoulders tensed for a split second, his back still to me.
"I dumped all the food," I said. "I threw out the plates too and broke several of them. That bone porcelain set was our wedding gift."
He still didn't say a word.
"The one your mom gave us," I added.
James finally turned around. "You did it on purpose." There was a hint of anger on his face, barely noticeable, but I caught it.
"Yes," I said with a bitter smile. "I waited until 3 AM. I called, but your phone was off. I messaged you, but you never answered. I even thought you had been in an accident and almost called the police."
"And then?"
"And then it finally clicked. You weren't dead. You didn't want to come back."
I walked over to him. We were so close I could smell his faint aftershave, the same kind I had bought him and that he had worn for three years.