Chapter 3

I collapsed into a chair in the hallway, dialing Marvin over and over. First call, his phone was off. Second, still off. Fifth, tenth, every single time, it was off.

I spent the whole night alone outside the ICU.

At seven the next morning, Marvin burst in with red eyes, fell to his knees in front of me, and said his phone had died. He kept apologizing, saying he got home, saw I wasn't there, and freaked out.

I believed him.

I hugged him, crying, whispering that it was okay, that I was just glad he came.

While I was sitting outside the ICU all night, he was in bed with Mabel.

"The divorce agreement," I said, my voice was so flat, it barely sounded like me. "The one you had me sign had nothing to do with transferring shares."

Marvin set the painting down on the couch, turned to face me, and took a deep breath. "Yeah."

He admitted it. So bluntly, it made me sick.

I said, "Mabel lost my mom's ashes, and I was a total wreck. You kept pouring alcohol down my throat every day, telling me it would help me sleep. Then you shoved that divorce agreement into my hands."

Marvin replied, "You know how things were back then. You couldn't even have a normal conversation, and there was no way I could actually talk to you about divorce—"

"So you lied!" My voice cracked.

He fell silent.

"You tricked me into signing, and then you went and married her," I said, gripping the edge of the table tightly. "No, it's worse than that. You even had a wedding."

His eyes flickered.

My friend bvsent me the wedding photos this afternoon. They were shots from Marvin's hometown, screenshots from their social media. Marvin in a black suit, Mabel in a white dress.

There was a host, a banquet, and over twenty tables full of friends and family. His parents were sitting at the main table, smiling so hard their faces were full of wrinkles.

Everyone knew except me.

I said slowly, "You two had a wedding three years ago. Your parents, your aunts, your uncles, they were all there.

"I was the only one left in the dark, still doing the laundry, cooking, and cleaning in this house, still smiling and raising a glass to your clients, calling myself Mrs. Nordon."

Marvin rubbed his temples.

He didn't deny it, didn't explain, didn't apologize.

He just said, sounding impatient, "Joyce, it's really not a big deal. In our circle, everyone still thinks you're my wife. You've got all the status and the life you should have.

"Nothing's missing. Nothing's changed. It's not a big deal at all. Why are you so hung up on it?"

Not a big deal at all. Those words just kept ringing in my head, over and over.

I'd been married to Marvin for seven years. I gave up my own career to manage his business, deal with clients, and fix his screw-ups.

Whenever he got wasted at business dinners, I was the one dragging him home. If a contract blew up, I'd stay up late to sort it out. Every holiday, I was the one buying gifts for his whole family and prepping for the celebrations.

I'd poured every bit of my time and energy into this marriage.

And what did I get in return? A phony marriage license, a divorce paper you conned me into signing, and all I got was a casual "It's not a big deal."

I grabbed the cup from the table and smashed it hard onto the floor.

Glass shards were scattered everywhere, and one bounced up, slicing my palm open. Beads of blood instantly welled up.

Marvin lunged at me, grabbing my wrist. "Are you crazy? Let me see—"

"Don't touch me," I snapped, yanking my hand back and stepping away. Blood trickled down my fingers, dripping onto the floor.

His hand froze in mid-air. "Joyce—"

"I'm not your wife," I said, staring him right in the face, each word slow and sharp. "You said it yourself, 'not a big deal.' So don't touch me. Whether you do or not, it's no big deal, right?"

His hand slowly dropped to his side.

I turned and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

As I slid down against the door and sat on the floor, I heard Marvin kick something over in the living room. The cake must've gotten knocked over, because the rich sweetness of cream drifted in.

I glanced down at the cut on my palm. The blood had already dried. It wasn't deep, and it didn't hurt.

The crazy part was that I was shaking, but not from fear, not because of the wound.

It was anger. Anger that scorched me, inside and out, from start to finish.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number that popped up.

[Joyce, I'm moving in next week. Could you tidy up the guest room for me? Thanks for taking care of Marvin all this time.]

It was from Mabel.

I stared at Mabel's message for so long that the screen eventually went dark.

Early the next morning, I started packing my bags.

There wasn't much in the closet. I folded my clothes one by one and packed them into my suitcase. Marvin leaned against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed, his face blank.