Chapter 2
When I woke up again, the doctor was standing by my bed, his face grim.
"If you'd been brought in ten minutes later, you would've gone into shock," he said.
I stared at the ceiling. It was three in the morning, and my IV drip had finally finished. I dragged my heavy feet back to my empty home.
As soon as I walked in, my phone lit up with a text from Cynthia.
Cynthia: [Faking illness to avoid apologizing, Shawn? Your tricks are getting more and more pathetic.
[I'm not coming home tonight. You'd better reflect on yourself.]
Mike's social media feed updated right on time.
The photo showed a slender hand making him some coffee.
The caption said: [With Cynthia here late at night, I'm not afraid of anything.]
The comments section was buzzing, and even some mutual friends were making snarky remarks about me.
[Cynthia treats Mike so well. Someone's probably losing their mind at home right now.]
Mike replied with a shy emoji.
I stared at the screen, feeling sick to my stomach all over again.
I opened my laptop, reached out to a lawyer I knew well, and started drafting the divorce papers.
I signed my name at the bottom without a second thought.
Early in the morning, the front door was suddenly pushed open from the outside.
Cynthia walked in, carrying the scent of cigarette smoke and a faint trace of men's cologne.
"Shawn, where's my breakfast?" she called out.
She tossed her bag onto the couch out of habit. "I'm wearing that gray suit today. Did you iron it?"
The house was dead silent, not a trace of warmth, and no one answered.
Cynthia frowned. "What the hell is up with you?"
She kicked the trash can next to her in frustration.
The trash can tipped over, and our fifth anniversary photo fell out, the glass shattering all over the floor.
Cynthia's expression shifted. She spun around and spotted the white paper on the dining table.
Her gaze locked onto the big, bold letters: "Divorce Agreement."
"Shawn!" Cynthia yelled.
She grabbed the agreement and ripped it to pieces.
She whipped out her phone to call me, but saw she'd been blocked.
Cynthia was so furious that she let out a sharp laugh.
She dialed her assistant, still sneering. "Shawn's finally growing a backbone, huh? He dares to bring up divorce. Now he's trying to play games with me.
"Shut down all the family joint accounts under his name and cut off his access to the Palmer Group's funds.
"Cut off his cash flow. Let's see how long an artist who can't do anything else can survive without me."
I used my own account to buy a studio apartment, and life was surprisingly peaceful.
Meanwhile, things on Cynthia's end were clearly falling apart.
On Wednesday morning, I was walking down the street when I overheard a group of young people gossiping.
"Did you see the trending topic? Ms. Palmer from the Palmer Group showed up at the press conference today wearing two different colored socks."
"For real? The mighty CEO can't even handle her own life?"
I shook my head with a quiet laugh and kept walking.
The next day, I was working out when someone started pounding on my security door so loud it felt like the whole building was shaking.
"Shawn, get your ass out here!" Cynthia's voice came through the metal door, laced with that familiar, commanding anger of hers.
I walked over and peeked through the peephole. Cynthia was standing outside in her high heels.
Mike looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, but he was trailing after her like a lost puppy.
Cynthia banged on the door and said, "Are you done with your little tantrum yet?
"The house is a mess, and you're hiding out in this dump and playing dead? Get your stuff and come home with me. My friends are coming over for dinner tonight, and you're on kitchen duty."
She spoke with such confidence, like I was a sulky servant acting up.
I stared at them coldly and said, "We've already signed the divorce papers. Whatever you do is none of my concern now."
"That doesn't count!" Cynthia snapped, cutting me off. "Isn't this all to get my attention? Well, you got what you wanted. Happy now?
"Quit the act. Come back with me now, and I won't make a fuss about the Maybach.
"If you don't, I've already frozen all the joint accounts in your name. Good luck making it on your own."
Cynthia still thought I was throwing a tantrum and refusing to come home. What a joke.
Mike poked his head out from behind her, pretending to be all soft and pitiful. "Shawn, don't make Cynthia mad, okay? She's barely eaten these past few days because of you.
"Even if you don't care about yourself, at least try to understand Cynthia. She really cares about you, but you keep acting so cold."
I glanced down at Mike. He was decked out in designer brands, his voice syrupy soft, but his eyes were full of challenge.
Without saying a word, I turned and headed into the kitchen, picked up a basin of filthy water mixed with mud and wilted veggies.
I yanked open the screen door and splashed the whole basin right onto their pricey leather shoes.
Muddy water splattered all over Cynthia's designer suit pants and ruined Mike's white casual pants.
"Get out of my place," I barked at them, my voice cold as ice.