In that silence, the last ember of what I once called love flickered and died.
Three words. Flat. Final.
"Let's get divorced."
I didn't wait for a response. I ended the call.
The hospital became my world for the next seven days. White walls. Fluorescent hum. The sharp bite of antiseptic in every breath.
Alone.
Jade Henson didn't visit. Not once. No calls. No messages. Her social media told me everything I needed to know—a curated shrine to her "rediscovered youth," plastered with photos of champagne toasts and Max Pruitt's glowing new beginning.
It wasn't until I finished the discharge paperwork and dragged my unsteady body back home that I saw her again.
She lounged on the living room sofa in a champagne silk nightgown, legs crossed with practiced elegance, a fashion magazine splayed across her lap. The door clicked open.
She didn't look up.
Her perfume hung thick in the air—expensive, cloying—clashing violently with the antiseptic still clinging to my clothes.
"You finally decided to come back?"
Glacial. Dripping with accusation.
"I thought you'd actually grown a spine and learned to run away from home."
I kicked off my shoes. Dropped the bag with my medical records onto the entryway cabinet. The incision in my stomach throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that had become as familiar as breathing.
"I was sick." I met her gaze. "I've been in the hospital for a week."
Her hand paused over the glossy page.
Finally, she looked up.
Those eyes—the ones I used to drown in—held nothing but mockery and disbelief.
"Sick? Hospitalized?"
A scoff. Like she'd heard the world's worst joke.
"Andrew Mason, there has to be a limit to your tantrums over a single photo, right? Using a fake illness to garner sympathy—don't you think that's pathetic?"
So that's what this was to her. My agony. A clumsy farce performed for her attention.
My heart had been numb for so long her cruelty didn't even sting.
When I didn't rise to the bait, the ridicule on her face faded. Replaced by bored magnanimity. She beckoned me over, her tone softening into something patronizing.
"Alright, look. I know you're upset, but Max is different—he's sensitive. He's a newcomer to the workplace. He messed up a major project, and then you went and spread that photo. How do you expect him to show his face in the company now?"
A sigh. The benevolent peacekeeper.
"Let's consider the matter settled. Sign this document, and I'll pretend none of this happened."
She lifted a folder from the coffee table. Held it out.
I took it.
The bold black title stabbed at my eyes.
**Company Equity Transfer Agreement.**
My name, printed clearly under "Transferor."
Under "Transferee," three words in stark relief: **Max Pruitt.**
Jade's voice droned on, laced with sickening charity.
"At the end of the day, you wronged Max. Treat this equity as compensation. Andrew, this is what you owe him."
*I owe him?*
I looked at the woman before me—a face I once knew better than my own—and saw a stranger.
I didn't argue. There was no point.
Silently, I opened my bag. From beneath a stack of hospital receipts, I pulled out a different document. Simon Chavez had printed it the night before my discharge.
I placed it on the coffee table.
Slid it directly over her ridiculous equity transfer agreement.
Jade frowned. "What is this?"
My voice was steady. Distinct.
"A divorce agreement. You sign yours. Then I'll sign yours."
