Chapter 4
I shut down my computer and walked into the closet, dragging out my largest suitcase. I moved through the space with purpose, packing everything that was mine—clothes, shoes, books, the small keepsakes that actually meant something to me.
My hands were steady, my movements efficient. There wasn't a trace of hesitation.
Everything that belonged to this "home," everything that came with being "Mrs. Grant"—I was leaving it all behind. Not a single piece was coming with me.
Halfway through packing, my phone rang.
It was Edward.
I stared at his name flashing on the screen and declined the call.
He called again.
Then I declined again.
After several rounds of this, a text came through, barely containing his anger: [Joanna, are you done with this tantrum? We'll talk tonight when I get home. Don't do something you'll regret.]
Regret? A bitter smile tugged at my lips.
The only thing I regretted was not seeing the truth sooner and not leaving earlier.
I didn't bother replying. Instead, I blocked his number.
Finally, my world went quiet.
William worked fast. The next afternoon, a meticulously worded divorce agreement landed in my inbox.
The terms were straightforward—the marital home would be mine, seventy percent of Edward's savings would be mine, and I'd relinquish any claim to his company shares. That part was murky territory I wanted no part of. Everything else—assets and debts under our respective names—we'd keep separate.
I read through it carefully, checking every detail, and then sent my confirmation.
After printing it out, I picked up a pen and signed my name.
I pressed down hard enough that the ink nearly bled through to the other side.
When I finished, I grabbed my phone and photographed the signed agreement. Then I pulled up everything I'd saved yesterday—those damning chat screenshots, the credit card statements that told their own story. I made sure every image was crystal clear.
Opening WhatsApp, I found Edward's chat thread. It had been silent for so long.
I hit send on all of it with no explanation.
The notification sound chimed—sharp, final. Like a period at the end of a sentence, I couldn't take back.
Less than ten seconds later, Edward's call lit up my screen.
His name flashed insistently, practically vibrating with panic.
I watched it ring. Watched it until the call dropped on its own.
Then ,he called again.
I just let it die.
Seven, eight times—the same dance. Finally, my phone went quiet.
Then WhatsApp exploded. Edward kept sending the messages.
Edward sent: [Joanna! What the hell is this? Where did you get those photos?!]
[You've been investigating me?]
[Let me explain! It's not what you think!]
[Sophia just got divorced—she's going through a rough time. I was just being a friend.]
[The bags, the money—she hit a rough patch. I loaned it to her. She'll pay me back.]
[Joanna, calm down. Five years of marriage and you don't trust me? You really want to throw it all away?]
[Take back the papers. Let's talk this through!]
[Joanna! Answer the phone!]
Message after message rolled in. The tone shifted with each one—shock and outrage melting into excuses, then something that almost sounded like begging.
I stared at the screen, feeling absolutely nothing. If anything, I found it almost laughable.
Explanations? A friend's concern that required luxury handbags shipped across the ocean and continuous wire transfers?
Money he "borrowed"? The bank statements didn't say anything about a loan.
And trust? He wanted to talk to me about trust after treating me like an idiot, after carrying another woman in his heart this whole time?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I didn't type a single word in response.
Instead, I sent him another photo—the suitcase I'd packed yesterday, standing in the middle of our living room.
Then I blocked him on WhatsApp, too.
Finally, my world was silent.