Seavora City, Carmoria.

Nathan Ziegler's side chick, Sophie, was melting down—again.

He shoved the divorce papers at me. "Just sign. It's for show. Gotta keep her calm."

I clutched my dress, gave a small nod, and signed. No fuss. No scene.

As I turned to leave, one of his buddies snorted, "Joelle's way too obedient. Bet she'd fetch the divorce decree if you asked."

Nathan lit a cigarette, smirking. "Wanna bet?"

To them, I was still the silent pushover. The girl who'd cry in court but still do what she's told.

Trade one paper for another—marriage for divorce.

I stared at my phone.

The message I'd received earlier: [Why don't you just marry me?]

I typed back: [Okay.]

The reply came back almost instantly: [?]

I shut off my phone.

Inside, the laughter kept rolling.

"Alright then! If Joelle's really that obedient, drinks are on me next month!"

"Make it three," Nathan said.

"Deal, deal!"

More laughter.

I bolted.

The second I hit sunlight, the tears came fast.

Nathan had fallen headfirst for Sophie—a college kid. Spoiled her rotten with a sky-high suite in Seavora, designer everything.

However, she wouldn't even let him touch her—no hugs, no kisses.

She floated around like a queen, decked out in five-figure outfits, nose in the air like, "I'm not some side chick."

Nathan? Ate it up.

This was Act Three of his tragic little drama.

Act One? I was the trophy wife.

Had no clue Sophie was even real.

I clung to him like a happy idiot, snapping selfies.

He posted a grid of pics. I was glued to my screen—waiting, refreshing.

Nothing.

Turns out? Visibility: "Sophie only."

Act Two? Picked a fight out of nowhere. Left me bawling on the curb.

Snapped a pic and texted her: [See? Can't help it. She just can't leave me.]

Now? Final act—divorce.

Phone buzzed.

[Seriously?]

[You serious, Joelle Jewell?]

I wiped my face, smiled, typed: [Yeah.]

***

That afternoon, Nathan actually drove me to the law firm.

He was in a freakishly good mood the whole ride. "Where should we go for our anniversary trip?"

Three years married. Childhood sweethearts.

"How about Praven? You've wanted to feed those dumb pigeons at Praven Square since you were, what, seven?"

He hopped out first, opened my door, even unbuckled my seatbelt.

"Tsk. Were you crying?" He frowned, brushing under my eye. "Told you, it's just for show. That little bird—I'm just waiting for her to crack."

Then something slipped from his pocket.

A box of rubbers.

He cleared his throat. Rubbed his nose.

Didn't bother lying.

Walked me inside like none of it mattered.

It went fast.

I had aphasia—couldn't talk to strangers—but nodding was enough.

The lawyer asked, "Divorce by mutual consent?"

Nathan: "Yes."

Me: nod.

"Irreconcilable differences?"

Nathan: "Yep."

Me: nod.

Signed.

Stamped.

The lawyer said, "I'll file it in court. You can pick up the decree there in a month."

Nathan snatched the photocopy like a trophy.

Didn't even wait to leave the building. Snapped a pic. Sent it.

Ding.

I received a piece of message. Of course—Sophie's.

Screenshot: the papers. His message: [Happy now? Get cleaned up for me tonight.]

I opened her profile.

Blocked.

Right after, another ping—flight ticket confirmation.

At the same time, a message popped up:

[Ticket's booked. See you in Parisia in a month.]

***

That night, Nathan showed up in my dream.

Not the smug jerk he became—but little Nathan.

"Joelle, your eyes are so pretty. Can I look at them when I talk to you?"

"Joelle, you play piano so beautifully. Can I come listen every day?"

"Joelle, I like you the most! When we grow up, I'm gonna marry you!"

And I liked him too.

We sat together in class, played after school.

Even the day my parents died, I was in his family's car, goofing around.

We were mid–rock-paper-scissors when the truck came out of nowhere.

Boom—

My parents. My brother. Even my dog. Gone.

The cars were impossibly close—I watched helplessly as my entire family perished.

After that, I couldn't speak.

Couldn't sleep unless Nathan was there.

He used to be different—gentle, patient.

Helped me learn to talk again. Told me stories when the nightmares got bad.

Anyone called me "dumb," he'd deck them. No hesitation.

Marrying him? Back then, it just felt right.

The day after I graduated college, he leaned over my bed at dawn.

"Joelle, let's get married."

So we did. Just like that.

In the dream, roses were everywhere—blood red, flooding the bed we used to share.

He knelt on it, kissed me.

"Joelle, we'll be this happy forever."

Then I woke up.

Pitch black.

I fumbled for my phone.

New message—from Sophie.

A photo.

Their bed.

Trashed.

Red smears across the sheets.

My stomach twisted.

I ran for the bathroom, dry heaving over the sink.

Nothing came up—just tears.

I slid to the floor, hugging my knees, freezing tile under me.

At some point, my hand must've hit something on the screen.

Then—

A deep voice.

"Joelle?"

My heart stuttered.

I grabbed the phone. "Wi–William?"

***

William Windsor was just another name on the patient list. One of us.

Three years deep into therapy and yeah, aphasia still flared up now and then, but I could talk again. Mostly.

Unless I was spiraling.

In the early days of my marriage, I was doing alright. Life felt... breathable. So I joined a support group. Got paired with a check-in buddy.

That buddy? William.

For almost two years, I thought he was a girl.

His profile pic? A pink bunny.

Username? "Angel."

In the beginning, "she" barely acknowledged my existence.

But I got it.

We didn't stay quiet because we wanted to. Sometimes life just sucker-punched the words out of us.

We might not say much. It didn't mean we didn't need someone.

So I kept texting.

Tiny slices of my life.

Voice notes. Stupid pics. Random videos.

Eventually, it felt like we'd been besties forever.

Then came our first call—and bam. System error.

He was a guy.

***

"S-Sorry," I whispered, clutching my phone. "I... didn't mean to bother you..."

"You didn't," he said. "It's 9 p.m. here."

His speech was so smooth now.

And that was only our second call.

Ever since I found out he wasn't a girl, I'd kept my distance—hadn't texted or talked to him for almost a month.

This time was a total accident.

Last time, Nathan handed me the divorce papers.

William just happened to text and ask what I was doing.

My brain just short-circuited the second I saw the divorce papers.

I only replied: [Getting divorced.]

After signing the papers, I ducked outside Nathan's office, shaking.

[William, I think I'm about to lose my home.]

No dad. No mom. No brother. Not even the dog I loved more than most people.

And now? No Nathan.

What was even left?

Didn't expect his reply:

[Why don't you just marry me?]

Inside, the circus rolled on.

"Yeah right, like Joelle's actually pulling off a divorce. The second she dumps Nathan, she'll forget how to speak."

"If she ends up in court, she'll totally lose it. Full meltdown."

"Really?" Nathan let out a laugh.

Tossed his lighter on the table. "Even if she's bawling in court, she'll come crawling back and do whatever I say."

I stared through the door crack at the guy who used to be my everything—and now looked like a complete stranger.

And I texted William:

[Okay.]

***

William sent me a checklist.

Stuff to get done in a month:

Visa? Yep. Legal papers? Obviously.

But then came his real priority—like twenty places I just had to eat at before leaving the country.

He messaged: [Carmorian food abroad tastes terrible. Trust me.]

I laughed and took it seriously.

Started checking off restaurants like it was my new job.

Living alone suddenly didn't suck so much.

I ate, shopped, packed like a pro.

Then the day I finally ditched Nathan's place, he texted:

[Not gonna call me? Don't you miss me?]

Seriously? He was out vacationing with Sophie, doing the whole "let me show you the world" act.

Then came another text: [Bad girl.]

And a photo:

[Nice place. Should I bring you here for our anniversary too?]

Block him? I wanted to. The way I blocked Sophie without blinking.

But I still had to show up in court to collect the official papers, so I bit my tongue.

The next two weeks were a blur.

Sold off my jewelry, a couple bags.

Went to the hospital for a full checkup—just in case. Made sure I wasn't pregnant.

Then I started sorting through all the assets Nathan had left in my care over the years.

Night before the court date, he finally rolled back into Seavora.

Called like it was some casual catch-up.

"Joelle, you moved out?"

***

He was used to me staying quiet on the phone.

Laughed to himself. "You're too cute. I told you, it's all just for show."

Then, all chipper: "Let's make the act complete. Tomorrow, come with me to pick up the decree."

I gripped my phone.

He started, "Joelle, relax, it's just—"

"Okay," I cut in.

A loud cheer exploded on his end.

I hung up.

Sent him the appointment time right after.

Next morning, I got up early.

Nathan showed up late. Of course.

And yeah, Sophie left a faint bite mark on his lip—he pretended it wasn't there.

So did I.

Whole thing was over in five minutes. Even faster than last time.

"Nathan, I've got a surprise for you tomorrow," he said, kicking my leg.

I slid the decree into my bag.

"Nathan, you free tonight?" I asked. "There's something I want to tell you."

He froze.

Ever since we got married, I'd only ever called him 'Honey.'

Then he smiled, flicked his copy of the decree. "Sure."

***

No matter who Nathan turned into this past year, I couldn't completely erase the version of him from before.

I was still grateful—for the years he stuck around, for the way he used to care.

So yeah, I hadn't planned to leave without saying goodbye.

But then the storm rolled in.

Thunder. Lightning.

I hated nights like this.

The crash had happened on a night just like this.