And I handed him a folder. He flipped through it, his expression tightening with every page. When he was done, he didn't say a word, just rubbed his face, then muttered, "God damn."
"She'll tell you I left her without reason," I added, "that I gave up. But I didn't. She did."
"I believe you," he said quietly. "I always warned her: don't mistake comfort for weakness. You didn't deserve this."
It wasn't about vengeance anymore; it was about truth. Making sure every corner she tried to retreat to had already been illuminated. No hiding. No sympathy. Only facts.
That weekend, I threw away the last box of her things. And that's when something unexpected happened: I cried. Not because I missed her, but because I realized I had stopped missing her. I cried for the man I used to be—the one who believed love was enough, the one who brought flowers on random Tuesdays and wrote letters during meetings because he missed his wife. That man had died the night I saw her with Chase on the sidewalk. I cried for him. And then, I let him go.
Lena called again two days later. Blocked number. I picked up out of curiosity. Her voice was flat now, like all the tears had dried up and left nothing but bitterness.
"You really think you've won, huh?"
I smiled slowly. "This isn't a game, Lena, but if it were, yes, I've already won."
"You ruined my life."
"No, Lena, you did that. I just made sure no one missed the show."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, "I'll fight this."
"I hope you do," I said, "because I got lawyers who love a fight, especially when the other side's got nothing left but a story no one believes."