"I'll give you ten minutes. If you don't do it, I’m not gonna let this slide."

Eric tossed out that little threat right before hanging up, like he was scared I might actually say no.

Back then, anytime he said he was mad, I'd cave. Not because I feared his anger—I just didn't want to pile more stress on him. Thought he was drowning in work, thought I was helping.

Now I knew better.

The chaos? Always his. I was just the one stuck cleaning it up.

Why keep doing that?

[You forgot your card? Ask your secretary. Or Vivien. This trip was for her project anyway. Let her pay for it.]

I fired off the message, shut my phone down, and headed home to pack.

I paid for the house. Every cent.

It was his favorite layout, his pick on the flooring. I even planned to put both our names on the deed... but something held me back. In the end, I wrote down only mine.

Looking back? Thank God I did.

Once everything was packed, I listed the house with a realtor.

The next day, I marched into the courthouse and handed over the signed divorce papers.

Back when we first signed them, I was still wondering how to break it to Eric. But he was already halfway out the door, dragging his suitcase like we were on a tight schedule.

He didn't even glance at the papers. Just flipped to the last page and signed.

"You should read it," I said, still hanging on to some tiny scrap of hope.

"No need. You're my wife. Don't I trust you?"

I smiled—cold and bitter.

Funny. He trusted Vivien with everything else.

That so-called trust? Just another way to brush me off.

Too busy chasing a flight. Too eager to join Vivien on "their" honeymoon.

I handed over the papers. The clerk said I needed proof—from him—that the relationship was actually over.

So I pulled out the receipts: photos of Eric and Vivien posing like a couple. Even brought the wedding photo he'd smashed for her.

Still, the clerk shook her head. "He has to say it himself."

Seriously?

Frustrated, I turned my phone back on.

It lit up like a Christmas tree—missed calls, unread messages. All from Eric.

Since I hadn't unfrozen the card, he'd cycled through the usual: begging, threatening.

The last message? Full-on rage. Swearing at me. Saying he wanted a divorce.

I showed it to the clerk.

She still wasn't budging.

So I called him. Took forever for him to answer.

"Eric, about our relationship—"

"What relationship? You're wasting your breath. If you don't apologize to Vivien, I will divorce you!"

He cut me off, cold. Like he thought I was calling to grovel.

Then he hung up.

That did it. The clerk's face finally softened as she processed the paperwork. "It'll be finalized in a month."

Eric wasn't serious. He never was.

He'd tossed around "divorce" like a threat for years—whenever he got pissed.

And I always folded. Always made peace, gave in, held things together.

He was convinced I'd never actually leave.

To him, "divorce" wasn't an ending. It was a weapon.

Eric really forgot how feelings work—like a savings account. Keep taking without giving, and yeah, it hits zero real fast.

I'd listed the house cheap, so it sold in under a week. After signing everything at the realtor's and locking in the move-out date, I headed home.

As soon as I opened the door, laughter echoed inside.

***

The couple slippers by the door? Gone.

Instead? A pair of heels—and Eric's favorite leather shoes. The same ones Vivien gave him for his birthday.

That's when it hit me: they were here. Together. Weren't they supposed to be gone for two more days?

I was still processing when Vivien strolled out like she owned the place. Wearing my slippers. My pajamas. Hair slightly messy, all casual and smug, like she lived there now.

"Hayley, why are you back? Isn't it office hours?"

She tossed a grape in her mouth and spit the seed into a cup—my cup. Part of the set Eric gave me back when I actually thought that meant something.

Eric walked out from the living room right then. Saw Vivien using my cup and, of course, acted like he didn't.

When his eyes landed on me, his face twitched—then iced over.

"Skipping work again? Just 'cause you're my wife doesn't mean you get special treatment. The company's not your personal playground. If you can't follow the rules, how am I supposed to make anyone else?"

Rules?

I almost laughed.

If anyone was breaking rules, it was Eric.

A year ago, right when the company was finding its footing, he fast-tracked Vivien—zero experience—straight into management. I had doubts. He swore she had "potential." So, like an idiot, I trained her.

She spent her days napping or doing her makeup. Then she'd hang around after hours, post pics in the group chat like she was burning the midnight oil.

I told Eric. He shrugged. "Maybe she just needs to unwind."

I asked him to keep tabs on her. "Too busy."

Suggested cameras. "Not legal."

Then came the botched projects. The money down the drain. Vivien kept playing dress-up at the office. When I finally said she had to go, Eric pushed back—hard.

He even asked, "Are you just jealous she might outshine you?"

So yeah. She stayed. Took my clients. Hijacked my projects. And Eric? Watched it all happen, said nothing. Worse—he called her the star employee and made me the villain. Just the jealous, petty wife.

I used to feel hurt.

Now? I realized—with the patience I wasted here, I could've crushed it anywhere else. Places where I wouldn't be ignored, sidelined, or treated like I didn't matter.

I said nothing.

Vivien gave Eric this fake-sweet back pat. "Maybe Hayley rushed over 'cause she found out you were back in Bellavaro."

Eric ate it up. Smug lit up his face. "Alright, just don't let it happen again. But hey—how'd you even know I was flying back today?"

Vivien smiled like butter wouldn't melt. "Eric, you forgot? HR booked your flight. Someone on the team probably told her."

Eric snorted, icy as ever. "You never care about work, Hayley, but you're all in when it comes to gossip. Don't think freezing my card and humiliating me in front of our partners gets a free pass. Vivien had to scramble around borrowing money to cover it.

"I'll forgive you—after we properly thank Vivien. Her place is under reno, so clear out the guest room. She's moving in."

I shrugged. "Already sold the place."

"You what?" His eyes bugged.

Before he could spiral, Vivien jumped in. "Hayley's probably selling it to buy you a bigger place. She's making it up to you!"

Eric nodded like it made perfect sense. "Yeah, we've outgrown this place anyway. I'll pitch in for the new one. So hold off on the sale—Vivien can crash here for now."

Vivien chimed in. "I feel bad, though. I'll pay rent."

Eric scoffed. "You're my assistant. I'm not charging you rent."

"But I insist. Something at least."

"Fine. A few hundred."

They were on the same delusional wavelength, acting like rent was pocket change.

This place was dead center in the city. Market rent was pushing a grand. No wonder he didn't care—it wasn't his to lose.

Back when we were dating, he used to split dinner and movie bills down to the freaking penny.

The leap from "I love you" to "you're disposable" was wild.

Eric turned back to me. "So? Agree to this, and maybe I'll reconsider the divorce."

"No need—"

He cut me off. "Whoa, not so fast. You think I'm just gonna forgive you? If I let this go, you'll just keep screwing up."

He really thought I was the one begging to stay.

Vivien giggled. "Eric, you've got a point. But for me? Can't you forgive Hayley? You've been together forever. Would be such a waste."

Eric pretended to think it over.

She leaned in, fake pout, tugging on his arm.

He chuckled. "Alright, alright."

Then he shot me a smug look. "Since Vivien's standing up for you, I'll drop it. You should really thank her. After all that, she's still on your side. So about the divorce—"

I cut in, calm and sharp. "You misunderstood."

Handed him the papers. "We're already divorced."