Chapter 4

The next day at noon, I showed up ten minutes early.

The usual place was the little hole-in-the-wall joint downstairs.

We found this place right after we got married, back when Sarah's company was still running out of a garage.

We were dead broke. After work, we'd hit that hole-in-the-wall downstairs for something cheap and hot.

But once her company took off, she stopped coming.

She thought the place wasn't fancy enough for her anymore.

But I still came by myself.

The owner grinned when he saw me. "Lucas, you're here. The usual?"

"Yeah, and add another seat," I replied.

"Is Sarah coming too? Haven't seen her in ages."

"Just add another seat."

At 12:15, Sarah walked in.

I almost didn't recognize her.

She'd lost weight.

In less than two weeks, her face had noticeably slimmed down.

She didn't even bother with makeup.

She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, her hair thrown up in a loose ponytail.

She looked nothing like the confident, glowing woman I'd seen outside the registry office just half a month ago.

She sat down.

She glanced at the food on the table and froze for a second.

"You still come to this place?" Sarah asked.

"It still tastes the same," I said.

She stayed quiet.

After a few seconds of silence, she took out some papers from her bag and set them on the table.

"Lucas, this is what we're dealing with right now," Sarah said.

I skimmed through the papers.

Summary of breach penalties, supplier shortage lists, stats on lost clients.

"Done," I said.

"Three projects are delayed, penalties total 1 million dollars. Six supply chains are broken, and the new suppliers are charging nearly 50% more. Andrew brought in a new team for the backend last week, and they messed up the customer data twice," she said.

As she spoke, her hands were clenched tight under the table. "There's only 0.5 million dollars left in the account. What we owe for goods and payroll next month—"

"1.8 million dollars," I said it for her.

She looked up at me.

There was a storm of emotions in her eyes.

"You know all this?" Sarah asked.

"I helped build your company for seven years. I know every piece inside and out—even with my eyes closed," I said.

She swallowed hard. "Lucas, can you—"

"No," I cut her off. "I can't help you. And I won't ever help you again."

Her fingertips went pale.

"I can pay. A normal business deal, at market rates—" she said.

"Sarah," I said, meeting her eyes. "It's not about the money."

"Then what is it?"

I pushed the food aside. "Do you have any idea how much I've poured into your company these past seven years?"

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

I added, "The tech backend I built for you? If you'd outsourced it, it'd be worth at least 2.7 million dollars. The supply chain connections I brought in saved you over 6 million. The clients, channels, and ad resources I hooked you up with—add up all the money and effort I poured in, and it's at least 10 million dollars, minimum."

"You never—" Sarah began, her voice trailing off.

"I never kept track," I cut her off. "You were my wife. Couples don't keep score."

Her eyes welled up.

"But what about you? Did you ever stop to think about what you gave back?" I asked.

I leaned in. "At your mom's poker nights, how did you introduce me? Just 'the tech guy.' When you talked to investors about your success, it was always 'I did it all myself.' And every time you posted about company milestones—did you ever mention me? Not even once."

Sarah's lips trembled. "Lucas, I—"

"That's why, when you brought up divorce, I didn't even think twice."

I leaned back in my chair. "Because you never saw any of this as something I gave you. You always thought it was all yours. Fine—now let's see how you do on your own."

The food just sat there, cold now.

The place's old fan droned on above us.

Sarah sat across from me, looking like someone had pulled the plug on her.

It took a long time before she finally spoke.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"So what do you want?" she asked.

"I don't want anything," I said, standing up and dropping 60 dollars on the table. "You walk your path, I'll walk mine. Don't come looking for me again."

I turned and walked out.

As I reached the door, I heard a stifled sob behind me.

I didn't look back.

Seven years of memories—it hurt, no doubt.

But it wasn't enough to make me look back.