Chapter 3

I went home.

Stephen was sitting on the couch in the living room. When he heard the door, he looked up at me. His face was dark, brows drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He was mad at me.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

"At my mom's," I replied.

"I told you something came up—" he started.

"I know," I said, walking into the living room. "You had things to deal with, so you couldn't make it. It's okay."

"So why didn't you pick up?" he asked.

"Didn't feel like it," I said.

He blinked, surprised by how straightforward I was.

In his mind, I was supposed to answer, listen to whatever excuse he had, smile and say, "It's okay. Focus on your work," and then suck it up and pretend nothing happened.

That was what I'd been doing for three years. But tonight, I was done.

"Emily, what's up with you?" Stephen asked, standing up and walking toward me. "You've been acting strange lately."

I looked up at him. The living room lights were bright, highlighting every sharp angle of his face. He was in his loungewear, hair a bit messy, like he'd been waiting for me forever.

But I knew he was not waiting out of concern. He was unsettled because I was acting out of character. It was like someone who was used to obedience suddenly facing defiance. Their first reaction wasn't to reflect. It was to get angry.

"Stephen," I said softly, "do you remember what day it is today?"

He frowned. "Your mom's birthday."

"Anything else?" I asked.

He thought for a while, his brows knitting tighter and tighter, like he was searching for some forgotten, unimportant memory. Eventually, he gave up, his face shifting from thoughtful to annoyed.

He couldn't come up with anything. In three years, he'd never remembered a single date that mattered to us, our anniversary, my birthday, the day we first met, not one.

The only thing he ever recalled was my mom's birthday, probably because last year, when he bailed, I cried all night. That must've stuck with him somehow.

I gave a bitter laugh. "Today makes three years and fifteen days since our wedding. Three days ago was our anniversary, and you didn't come home.

"Seven days ago was your birthday, and you spent it with Claire. Fifteen days ago was the first time you blew me off for her.

"A month ago, I had a fever of 104, went to the ER alone, and called you three times. You didn't answer. You were out having coffee with her."

His expression shifted. For a second, that cold mask of his cracked, and something slipped through. It was a look I couldn't quite name. It wasn't guilt or pain. It was more like the embarrassment of being caught, like getting exposed in a lie.

"Enough," he cut me off. "What are you trying to say?"

What did I really want to say? For three years, I'd been a ghost in this marriage. I wanted to tell him that I got up at six every morning to make him breakfast, and he'd never once said thank you.

I wanted to remind him that his grandpa grabbed my hand right before he died and made me promise to take care of Stephen. I kept that promise. That was why I put up with all of this for three years.

I wanted to say I was done. I didn't love him anymore.

But I didn't say a word. I shook my head. "It's nothing. I'm going to take a shower."

As I walked past him, he reached out and grabbed my wrist. His fingers were ice cold, and his grip was almost painful. The gesture brought back memories of our wedding night.

That night, I had reached for him the same way when he stepped out of the bathroom. He didn't even pause or glance at me. He gently pulled his hand away and said, "You should get some sleep."

Now, he was holding my wrist so tightly it felt like he might crush my bones. But I didn't want it anymore. His touch was too late.

"Emily, you're different now," Stephen said.

"People change," I replied.

"Why?" he asked.

I looked down at his hand gripping my wrist. His fingers were long and strong with perfectly trimmed nails. Our wedding band was still on his ring finger, the one he never took off.

But that ring meant nothing. Some people wear their wedding ring while their heart is somewhere else. Others take it off and finally feel free.

"Stephen, let go," I said.

He didn't let go. "Tell me why," he pressed.

I yanked my hand free and stepped back, putting some distance between us.

A red mark lingered on my wrist, the shape of his grip. I didn't bother to rub it away and let it fade on its own, like the scars this marriage left behind.

I didn't need to erase them. With time, they would disappear all by themselves.

"Because I don't want to lie to myself anymore," I said.

His eyes slightly widened. "About what?"

"That someday, you'd fall in love with me," I said.

The living room was so quiet that it was almost scary. The ticking of the clock on the wall sounded deafening, each tick measuring the seconds I'd wasted in this marriage.

Stephen stood there, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something, but he never said a word.

He didn't deny it. He didn't even bother with a "You've got it wrong." He stood there in silence. And that silence told me everything I needed to know.

I turned and walked into the bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it, shutting my eyes.

Finally, the tears came. But not for him.

They were for the woman I used to be. The one who believed that if she was good enough, he would finally see her.

For the version of myself who waited through countless lonely nights, humble and foolish, hoping for something that would never come. For the woman who offered her whole heart to someone who never cared.

Once the tears stopped, I wiped my face, picked up my phone, and sent a message to Alex Carter: [I need your help.]

Alex replied right away: [What is it?]

I replied: [Divorce.]

The typing indicator blinked for ages, and then he finally sent back: [Okay.]

*****

The next day, I took half a day off and went to Alex's law firm.

Alex and I were college classmates. He was one of the few people in this city I could really talk to.

He was a divorce lawyer and had handled hundreds, maybe even thousands, of cases. He had a sharp tongue but a soft heart, and he always got straight to the point.

Back in college, we took an elective together. He sat behind me. Whenever the professor called on me, he would kick my chair and whisper the answers.

After graduation, he got his law license and specialized in family law, building a solid reputation in the field.

His office was in a downtown high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the entire city skyline. The view was so wide open that it made anyone feel like they could breathe again.

"You're getting a divorce?" Alex asked, holding his coffee, unfazed, like he'd been expecting it all along.

"Mm."

"Stephen known yet?"

"Not yet."

"So, when are you gonna tell him?"

"When I've got everything ready," I said.

Alex set his coffee down and gave me a long, searching look. His gaze was razor-sharp, like he could see straight through me. "Emily, you get what divorce means, right? We're talking about the Reed family's money, everything you two own together, and—"

"I don't want a dime from him," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Not even a dollar?"

"Not even a dollar."

"So what do you want, then?" he asked.

"I want a clean break," I said.

Alex was quiet for a moment, then suddenly smiled. There was relief in that smile, a bit of admiration, and a touch of sympathy. "You finally woke up."

I smiled too. "Yeah, I finally did."

He opened his laptop and started making a checklist for me: documents, materials, asset division plan, and a draft of the divorce agreement. His fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, like he was playing a crisp, rhythmic melody.

"Look, even if you say you don't want a dollar, I really think you should get something. Three years of marriage, it's not nothing. You earned it," Alex said.

"Don't bother," I replied.

"Emily—"

"Alex," I cut him off, "I don't want anything tying me to him anymore. Taking one dollar means more strings, more mess. I'm done. I want this finished, and I want out, fast."

Alex studied me for a long moment. His eyes were sharp with scrutiny, then softened into understanding. Finally, he let out a sigh.

"All right. I'll respect you." He pulled a business card from his drawer and slid it across the desk. "If you ever change your mind, give me a call. With Stephen, you have to be ruthless. Otherwise, he'll never know what real pain feels like."

I took the card, but I didn't change my mind. I didn't need him to hurt. All I wanted was my own freedom.