Chapter 3

"Exactly what I said," I replied, picking up the agreement and handing it to him. "He wants a divorce. He brought it up today. We already signed everything."

He took the papers and skimmed through them. With every page, his face grew grimmer.

"What the hell," Michael cursed. "When did all this happen?"

"This morning. He came back, handed me the papers, and said another woman was pregnant and wanted him to make their relationship official. He told me to sign," I pointed at the coffee table. "I signed. We agreed on the terms. He left."

Michael set the papers down, pressing his hands to his forehead. He stayed silent for a long time.

"Who is she?" he finally asked.

"Claire. Twenty-four, ballet teacher. She's three months pregnant."

"He admitted it?"

"Yeah."

"That bastard," Michael muttered, getting up and pacing the living room. "I told you he was trouble. I should've tried harder to stop you from marrying him. Because he's got money, does he think he can walk all over you?"

"Don't, Michael," I said softly.

"Why shouldn't I?" He spun around, eyes red. "You two have only been married three years. Three years, and he's already cheating? Got another woman pregnant? And now, on your anniversary, he asks for a divorce? What kind of person does that?"

"He was never a decent human being," I said. "I misjudged him."

Michael crouched down again and held my hand. Mine was icy, but his was warm and steady.

"Emily," he said gently, "do not be afraid. I am here. Divorce him. Who needs a man like that? We may not have much, but you will always have a home with us. I will handle Mom and Dad."

I shook my head. "I'm not scared. I'm not even sad."

"Then you..."

"I'm angry," I said, locking eyes with him. "Michael, I'm really angry."

Michael was taken aback for a moment.

I added, "For three years, I was an idiot. I waited for him, cooked, cleaned, and handled everything.

"I stayed with his mother in the hospital, handled his sister's overseas paperwork, and borrowed money from my family when his company was struggling."

I spoke faster and faster, my voice shaking. "And what did I get? He had another woman and got her pregnant. He hid it for three months.

"All that time, he slept with me, ate my cooking, and asked for shoulder rubs. How could he be so shameless?"

"Emily..."

"I want revenge," I cut him off. "Michael, I want revenge."

Michael went quiet. He looked at me like I was a stranger. "How do you want to get back at him?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But there's no way I'm going to take the 1.67 million dollars and slink away, letting them play happy family. Dream on."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Do me a favor," I said, gripping his hand tighter. "You've got connections at the hospital, right? Can you dig up someone's medical records for me?"

"Who?"

"Claire Summers," I replied. "I want everything. Where she is registered, her due date, her health, every detail."

Michael frowned. "That is not really allowed."

"Please," I said, locking eyes with him. "I'm begging you, Michael. This one time, please."

He struggled with it for a long time, but finally nodded. "I'll give it a shot, but I can't guarantee I'll find anything."

"Thanks," I said, letting go of his hand and leaning back into the couch.

"And one more thing," Michael said, "don't stay here for the next few days. Go home, or come stay with me. Don't be alone."

"No," I shook my head firmly. "I need to be here."

"Why?"

"Because this is my home," I said. "At least for now. I want to be here when he comes back."

"You still want to see him?"

"Of course I do," I said with a smile. "The divorce isn't finalized yet, and there are still some things we need to clear up."

Michael looked at me and sighed. "Emily, are you sure you're okay? Want me to prescribe you something to help you sleep?"

"No," I said, getting to my feet. "I'm hungry. Have you eaten yet?"

"Not yet. I got off my night shift."

"I'll whip up something to eat," I said, heading to the kitchen. "There's still some food in the fridge. I bought it yesterday, meant to cook for him."

In the kitchen, everything was as I had left it: pork ribs, sea bass, and corn. I stared at them for a long moment before taking everything out of the fridge.

"Michael, want some barbecue ribs?" I called out, glancing back at him.

Michael stood in the doorway, worry written all over his face. "If you're making it, I'll eat it."

"Alright," I said, turning on the faucet and starting to rinse the ribs.

The water was icy, bone-chillingly cold.

I made three dishes: barbecue ribs, grilled sea bass, and garlic broccoli. I did not have time for a slow-cooked soup, so I made egg drop soup with seaweed.

Michael helped set the table. We sat down together, like we used to when we were kids.

"Try this," I said, picking up a rib and putting it on his plate.

He took a bite and nodded. "Tastes like I remember."

"This was his favorite," I said. "Every time I made it, he'd eat two bowls of rice."

Michael put down his fork. "Emily, don't."

I picked up another piece of fish and placed it on his plate. "Why should I not talk about it? In three years, I became a great cook. He was picky, no spicy food, cilantro, or organ meat. I remembered everything.

"His shirts had to be hand-washed and perfectly ironed. He only drank pour-over coffee made at 185 degrees, and he wanted warm water before bed, never too hot."

I rattled it all off in one breath. "I was basically his maid. No, I was more devoted than a maid because I also had to sleep with him."

"Emily."