From the safe under the coffee table, I took out the divorce papers I had drafted long ago.
I glanced down at my fingertips, calloused from years of handling chemical reagents, and a small, dry laugh escaped me.
This time, the laugh held a hint of relief.
I took out my phone and called my mentor.
"Professor Finch, that special research project you mentioned at the top research institute on the West Coast... is there still a spot for me?"
A few seconds of silence, followed by an ecstatic shout.
"Of course! It's a top-tier project for tackling Alzheimer's! Evelyn, the security clearance is extremely high. Once you join, you can't leave for five years. You're Aethelred's chief scientist; will your husband agree? Without your core technology, your company's stock will plummet."
I signed my name at the bottom of the document, my voice firm.
"Professor, I'm getting a divorce."
Cheers erupted on the other end of the line; my future colleagues were clearly eavesdropping.
"We knew that Julian guy was bad news! Glad your head is finally out of the clouds."
"Evelyn, come back to us! We old-timers are all waiting for you."
"Don't be sad. Men only get in the way of good data."
My mentor jokingly shushed them before speaking seriously.
"Evelyn, the West Coast Biological Research Institute's Special Unit 707 is officially extending an invitation. Report for duty immediately! We leave in two days. Settle your affairs."
I hung up and went into the guest room.
Before, no matter how late Julian came home, I had insisted on sleeping in our bed, clinging to the hope of catching his familiar scent on the pillows.
But now, only the guest room felt untainted.
The next day, I slept until one in the afternoon.
The deep sleep, after three months of grueling work on the clinical trial, felt restorative.
I checked my phone. The screen was flooded with congratulations on the excellent data from the trial's first phase. The board members were all praising the CEO's brilliant leadership.
Julian was frantically tagging me in the company group chat, promising me rare stock options and a massive year-end bonus.
Looking at the hypocritical praise, I felt nothing.
I lay in bed a while longer, then got up and walked out with the papers.
The living room was empty.
On the coffee table was a reservation confirmation for a three-star Michelin restaurant, a place we used to frequent for our anniversaries. Beside it was a sticky note in his flamboyant script.
"7 p.m. tonight. See you there."
This was Julian's idea of an apology—a scrap thrown to a pet.
After a moment's thought, I decided to go.
Not to save this fractured marriage, but to end it.
After all, Julian had proposed to me in this very restaurant seven years ago. We were at City Hall the next day.
It was fitting to bring things full circle.
At 5 p.m., I placed the papers and the reservation confirmation in my bag and slipped on a simple gray cashmere dress.
Usually, I would have spent hours meticulously getting ready for a date with Julian. It was a ritual I once performed with giddy anticipation, but now it felt pointless. I didn't even bother waiting for him, just grabbed a burger at a fast-food joint downstairs.
By the time I arrived at the restaurant, it was already 6:50 p.m.
I sent Julian a text, but he didn't reply.
