Mad. I laughed. No, that implies I still care enough to raise my voice. I'm done. Finished.
Out of emotional budget. She stared at me, shaking her head. You're a monster. Funny, I said. coming from the woman who made out with her boss in a parking garage.
Her nostrils flared. "You followed me." "Sure did," I said. "You were hard to miss considering the fluorescent lighting and your boss's hairline acting as a spotlight." She gasped.
"You recorded us?" I shrugged. "Think of it as home security footage, just not for this home." Her hands balled into fists. You can't use that legally.
"I can, and I will. Morally, you forfeited the conversation at the Ember Lounge." She sat back down, clutching her head. "I can't believe this." "I know," I said.
Self-awareness has never been your strong suit. The room went quiet except for the sound of Milo panting, his tail wagging like he could sense the drama. He sniffed the air, then sat beside me. "Good boy," I said, scratching his ear. "You want a pancake?"
Belinda glared. "You're feeding the dog pancakes while we're having a serious conversation. Technically, I'm having breakfast." I said. You're having consequences.
Her face went red. I'll fight this. I'll get a lawyer. Oh, please do. I said cheerfully.
Mrs. Delgado loves a challenge. She's already color-coded your downfall. She stormed toward the counter, grabbed her phone, and started furiously typing, probably texting Mr. Hairline and heartache for sympathy.
I walked over, leaned against the doorway, and said, "By the way, your phone bill's due tomorrow. That's on you now, too." She froze. "You cut me off completely," I said. "Financial independence builds character."
She spun around, eyes wild. "I have nowhere to go." "Sure you do," I said. "You've got a boss who seems very accommodating." The silence that followed was delicious.
You could have buttered the silence and served it with brunch. She threw her phone onto the couch and screamed, "You humiliated me." I smiled. "Not yet. I've been very discreet, but keep yelling."
I'll upload the video to a private drive called career limiting moves. Her shoulders slumped. For the first time in weeks, she looked small, human, maybe even scared, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a little. I loved her once deeply, but the woman standing in front of me wasn't the one I married. She'd traded vows for validation and integrity for instant gratification.
So, no, I didn't feel guilty for letting her sit in the mess she made. I took my plate to the sink, rinsed it, and said quietly. You should start packing. She blinked. You're kicking me out.
"Consider it an early checkout," I said. "Oliver." "Belinda," I interrupted. "I wish you luck, truly, but you don't get to burn down the house and act surprised when the smoke alarm goes off."
She stood there shaking. You'll regret this. I turned, leaning against the counter. I already regretted marrying you. This part's just damage control.
Her lip quivered. You're cold. I'm healed, I said simply. For a long, quiet moment, she just stared at me, maybe waiting for me to crack, but I didn't. I couldn't.
I'd already grieved the marriage. This was the epilogue. Finally, she grabbed her bag, muttered something under her breath, and stormed out. The door slammed hard enough to rattle a frame on the wall. The house fell silent again.
I exhaled long and steady. The tension that had lived in my shoulders for months finally loosened. Milo trotted over and rested his head on my leg, tail thumping softly. "It's just us now, buddy," I said, scratching his ears. "And look at that. We finally have peace and pancakes."
I sat back down, poured another cup of coffee, and stared at the empty seat across from me. For the first time in a long time, it didn't feel lonely. It felt earned, like quiet was no longer the absence of noise but the presence of sanity. The phone buzzed.
A text from Tar. Did she get the note? I smiled and typed back. She got the deluxe package. Screaming denial.
Exit slam. 10 out of 10 performance. He replied with a laughing emoji. And damn man, you're free. Free.
The word looked good on the screen. I leaned back, watching the morning light spill across the kitchen. The same kitchen that had heard every fight, every fake apology, every lie. Today it felt new, lighter, like the house itself was relieved she was gone. I grabbed my phone again and opened my playlist.
Song number one, Don't Stop Me Now. Fitting. I turned up the volume until Milo's ears perked. Dancing in pajama pants at 8 a.m. wasn't on my bucket list, but Freedom does strange things to a man.
I sang along off key, flipping pancakes with one hand and air guitaring with a spatula in the other. Halfway through the song, I caught my reflection in the microwave door. messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, ridiculous grin, and thought, "Yeah, this guy's going to be okay." Before heading out to meet Mrs. Delgado to file the final set of documents, I cleaned the kitchen, fed Milo, and tucked the envelope back into my drawer.
A keepsake, not of her, but of the moment I took my life back. As I grabbed my keys, I noticed her mug still sitting on the counter, lipstick print and all. I considered throwing it out, then decided against it. No, let it stay. a reminder of what blind trust costs.
I walked to the door, sunlight spilling across the floor. I took a deep breath, smiled, and whispered to myself, "Welcome to your new morning routine." Then I stepped outside, coffee in one hand, freedom in the other.
If you've never been to divorce court, let me paint you a picture. It's like the office meets judge duty. The same awkward silences, the same forced smiles, and absolutely no snacks. Everyone's pretending to be civilized while secretly calculating how many ways they can ruin each other before lunch. Walking in that morning, I felt oddly calm.
Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the relief that this circus was finally reaching its last act. Belinda, meanwhile, looked like she'd spent the night wrestling her conscience and lost. She was sitting two rows ahead, pretending to scroll through her phone like she wasn't fighting the urge to hurl it at me. Her lawyer sat beside her.
Some guy named Derek with slick back hair and an ego so shiny it could have been used as a mirror. Mrs. Delgado, my legal gladiator, gave me a nod. Ready? She whispered.
Born ready, I said. Let's turn heartbreak into case law. The bailiff called the session to order. The judge entered. A silver-haired woman with glasses perched halfway down her nose and a face that said she'd seen it all.