“Mrs. Hale… are you certain?” the attorney asked, his tone measured but uneasy. “You’ve spent two decades in this marriage. And based on the prenuptial contract you and your husband both endorsed… neither party can pursue a divorce unless one of you passes away.”
I stared blankly at him as the words sank like stones in my chest.
Unless one of you dies.
A humorless laugh slipped out, bitter and sharp. I pressed both hands to my temples. “I can’t believe how foolish I was,” I whispered.
Twenty-five years back, I was just a young woman who believed that love could conquer anything. Tristan and I were inseparable then—reckless, passionate, wrapped up in dreams. He was charismatic, full of ambition, always talking about the future he’d build for us. And I clung to every promise.
But I had dreams too. I wanted to paint. I had earned a scholarship overseas—my one true aspiration before he became the center of my world.
So I left. Just for a year. That was the plan.
Halfway through my time abroad, everything fell apart. An email came in—no sender, no explanation. Only a blurry photo taken from afar. But even grainy pixels couldn’t hide what I recognized immediately.
Tristan. Holding another woman’s hand. Leaning in. Kissing her.
My eyes stung, my vision swam. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t him. That the photo was old. Or edited. Or some sick joke.
But in the pit of my stomach, I knew. I knew that jacket. I knew the way he angled his head when he kissed.
It was him. It was real.
My heart cracked open.
I remembered dialing his number, hands trembling so violently I almost dropped the phone. When he answered, my voice barely worked.
“Tristan?” I croaked.
“Celine? You sound upset. What happened?”
“I… I received a picture,” I forced out. “Of you. With someone else.”
Silence. A deep, heavy pause.
Then he breathed out. “Yes.”
Just that. No shock. No denial.
“Yes?” I repeated, choking.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but the apology was empty. “I was lonely. You left me here alone.”
I pressed my palm over my heart, feeling the ache deepen. “You promised you’d wait.”
“I tried,” he said quietly. “But it was difficult. I needed someone… something.”
“And that excuses everything?” I whispered, tears spilling. “I trusted you.”
“If only you hadn’t gone,” he murmured, as if the blame belonged to me. “Maybe none of this would’ve happened.”
And I—pathetic, naïve, hopelessly in love—believed him.
I blamed myself. Blamed my dream. Blamed the scholarship. Blamed anything that wasn’t him.
So I did what he wanted: I returned. And I married him.
We had a simple ceremony. That was twenty years ago. I abandoned my paints, my ambition, the life I once wanted. I convinced myself that this—love—required sacrifice.
But the cracks returned. Slowly. Softly. Eventually too visible to ignore. Tristan became cold, distant. Always claiming he was tired, overloaded, unavailable. I convinced myself he still cared. That I was imagining things.
I never questioned the way his eyes followed Alyssa. I never wondered why Noah adored her so much or why he often said he wished she were his mother. Alyssa had been struggling—jobless, desperate—and I had been the one to suggest Tristan hire her for HR.
I was the one who welcomed her in.
Into our home.
Into our daily rhythm.
Into my marriage.
And she stabbed me in the back.
“Mrs. Hale?” the lawyer said again, snapping me out of the downward spiral of my memories.
“I understand,” I replied, voice steady, oddly calm. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gone within a week. Just have the documents ready, and deliver them to him after I’m… out of the picture.”
My fingers shook as I ended the call.
I was about to lie down when my phone lit up again. Noah.
The moment I answered, he was yelling. “Where the hell are you?! Tina waited for you at her school event! She cried because you didn’t show up!”
“I—what?” I sat up abruptly. “I didn’t know. I collapsed outside the stadium last night. I woke up in a hospital. I—”
“Hospital?” he scoffed. “Here you go again with your excuses. Come home. Now.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I went home, my head pounding, my chest tight. As soon as I stepped through the door, Tina rushed toward me—then hurled something.
Mud. It splattered across my dress.
Then came the toys—one hit my arm hard enough to bruise.
“I hate you!” she shrieked. “You didn’t come! Aunt Alyssa said you only think of yourself! She said you’re bad! I don’t want you anymore!”
I couldn’t speak. I could only stare.
Then Tristan appeared, arms folded, expression judgmental. “Look at that. Even the child sees what you are. Where were you last night, Celine?”
I swallowed. “Where were you last night, Tristan?”
His jaw twitched. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing,” I murmured, turning away. “I’m just tired of being disappointed.”
I walked toward the kitchen.
“I wasn’t finished,” he barked.
“I’m making dinner,” I said quietly, not stopping.
I was slicing vegetables when I heard humming. A light, familiar tune. The same melody from the concert.
Alyssa leaned against the doorway, smirking. “Sorry, it’s just stuck in my head. The show was incredible. You saw the clip, right? Or do you want me to send it to you?”
That was the last straw.
Without hesitation, I turned, grabbed the nearest bowl of water, and flung it straight into her perfectly made-up face.
She gasped, drenched and stunned.
“You make me sick,” I said, my voice trembling with years of swallowed anger finally breaking free.
