Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Rain lashed against the windshield of the old Volvo, blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. The wipers were fighting a losing battle, rhythmically thumping like a failing heart.

Jorden Nash gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His breath fogged the glass.

He was late.

Not for a meeting. Not for a doctor's appointment. He was late picking up a dress. A Dior evening gown that Catarina needed for tonight. A gown that she would wear while standing next to Atticus Deleon.

The thought made his stomach tighten. Acid burned the back of his throat.

Just get the dress, Jorden. Don't ruin the night.

He checked the time on the dashboard. 7:42 PM. The event started at eight. Chloe, Catarina's assistant, had already called twice. He hadn't answered. He was driving too fast on a slick road in upstate New York, trying to be the good husband. The useful husband.

The headlights of the oncoming truck didn't look like lights. They looked like two exploding stars.

The truck hydroplaned. It crossed the center line.

Jorden slammed on the brakes. The tires locked. The Volvo spun, the world tilting on its axis.

There was no time to scream. There was only the sound of metal screaming against metal, a deafening crunch that vibrated through his teeth, and then the shattering of glass.

Pain.

It wasn't a sharp prick. It was a sledgehammer to the chest. The steering column crushed inward. The airbag detonated like a bomb in his face.

Then, darkness.

But not silence.

Jorden didn't float toward a white light. He fell. He fell into a deep, digital abyss.

It felt like his brain was being pried open with a crowbar.

Accessing...

It wasn't a voice. It was a sensation. A pressure in his frontal lobe.

Billions of sparks ignited in the dark. They weren't stars. They were data.

Cooking. Molecular gastronomy. The precise temperature to coagulate an egg yolk. 62.5 degrees Celsius. Not just recipes, but the chemistry of sustenance.

Music. Rachmaninoff. The muscle memory of a left-hand arpeggio. The vibration of a Steinway string.

Surgery. The tension of a suture. The anatomy of the human heart. The exact pressure needed to crack a sternum.

Finance. High-frequency trading algorithms. Market volatility. The smell of fear on a trading floor.

The information didn't trickle in. It flooded him. It was a tsunami of competence crashing into a vessel that had been empty for three years. It hurt. It felt like his neurons were being burned away and re-soldered. He was drowning in other lives, other Jordens, other possibilities.

He screamed in the void, but no sound came out.

Calibration complete.

The darkness shattered.

"BP is stabilizing. 110 over 70. Heart rate 85."

The voice was mechanical. No, it was human, but it sounded distant.

"Pupils are reactive. He's coming back."

Jorden gasped. The air tasted like rubbing alcohol and burnt rubber. His eyes snapped open.

The light was blinding. He blinked, tears streaming down his temples. He was staring at a ceiling tile with a water stain shaped like a map of Florida.

"Mr. Nash? Can you hear me?"

A face loomed over him. Dr. Stein. Jorden didn't know him, but he knew the type. Tired eyes, caffeine tremors in the hands, a stethoscope that was slightly cold.

Jorden tried to speak. His throat felt like it was filled with shards of glass.

"Easy," Dr. Stein said, shining a penlight into Jorden's left eye. "You were in a severe accident. A truck hit you. Do you know your name?"

Jorden closed his eyes. The data streams were still running behind his eyelids, green and gold code cascading down. He focused. He pushed the noise back.

"Jorden," he rasped. "Jorden Nash."

"Good. Do you know what day it is?"

"Friday," Jorden whispered. Then, instinctively, his brain supplied more. "October 14th. The barometric pressure is 1013 millibars. Humidity is 85 percent."

Dr. Stein paused. He pulled the light away, frowning slightly. "That's... precise."

Jorden tried to sit up. A sharp, hot agony flared in his ribcage. He winced, his hand flying to his chest.

"Three broken ribs," Dr. Stein said, putting a hand on Jorden's shoulder to keep him down. "A concussion. Multiple contusions. You're lucky to be alive, son. The car is an accordion."

Jorden lay back. The pain was there, real and throbbing, but his mind analyzed it instantly. Intercostal nerve irritation. Inflammation. Manageable through controlled breathing, though the physical damage would take weeks to knit.

He looked to the side. A nurse, Nurse Joy according to her badge, was adjusting his IV drip. She looked at him with pity. That familiar look. The look people gave the husband who walked three steps behind the heiress.

But he didn't feel like that husband anymore.

He looked at the bedside table.

It was empty.

No flowers. No card. No Catarina.

Just his phone. The screen was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks over the glass.

"My phone," Jorden said.

Nurse Joy hesitated, then handed it to him. "It rang a few times. We didn't answer."

Jorden pressed the power button. The display glitched, colors distorting, but the touch sensor still responded.

Three missed calls.

Chloe Vance.

Chloe Vance.

Chloe Vance.

Not Wife. Not Catarina.

He opened the voicemail. He didn't put it to his ear. He pressed the speaker button.

Chloe's voice was shrill, piercing the quiet hum of the hospital machinery.

"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting in the VIP lounge for thirty minutes! Did you get the dress? Atticus needs to match his tie to it. Pick up the phone! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."

Nurse Joy winced. She looked away, embarrassed for him.

Jorden stared at the phone.

Yesterday, this message would have sent him into a panic. He would have been hyperventilating, texting apologies, begging for forgiveness for something that wasn't his fault. He would have felt that familiar crushing weight in his chest-the fear of losing her.

But now?

He felt... nothing.

No. Not nothing. He felt clarity.

The dress. He had almost died for a dress. A dress for a woman who couldn't be bothered to call him when he didn't show up. A woman who was currently worried about matching her lover's tie.

The emotions that usually ruled him-insecurity, devotion, desperation-were gone. They had been overwritten by the Archive.

Logic took the wheel.

Asset: Catarina Evans. Status: Liability. Return on Investment: Negative.

He deleted the voicemail.

Dr. Stein cleared his throat, holding a clipboard. "Mr. Nash, we need to set your ribs and monitor for internal bleeding. We usually ask for a next of kin to be present for consent, just in case complications arise during the procedure. Should we call your wife again?"

Jorden looked at the doctor. His eyes, usually warm and pleading, were now dark pools of ice.

"No," Jorden said. His voice was steady. "She's busy."

"Are you sure? It's major surgery."

"I'm sure." Jorden reached out. His hand didn't shake. "Give me the pen."

Dr. Stein handed it to him. Jorden signed his name. The signature was different. Sharper. More aggressive.

The phone in his hand buzzed again.

The screen lit up.

Wife.

Nurse Joy perked up. "Oh! That must be her. Do you want to-"

Jorden looked at the name. Wife. It felt like a word from a foreign language. A label for a job he had just been fired from. Or rather, a job he was quitting.

He didn't swipe green.

He pressed the volume button on the side of the phone.

The buzzing stopped.

He placed the phone face down on the cold metal table.

"Let's get this over with," Jorden said to the doctor, closing his eyes.