Chapter 4

By the time I left the lawyer’s office, night had fallen.

I grit my teeth through the pain and headed home. The second I walked in, I spotted an open suitcase in the middle of the living room.

Diana was shoving dresses into it. Lucas was sprawled on the couch like he owned the place.

"Oh, you’re back."

Diana glanced up, her voice casual—as if we hadn’t just torn each other apart.

"Perfect timing. There’s something you need to know."

"Lucas has a heart condition. That punch you threw today really messed him up."

"The doctors say he needs round-the-clock care. I’m staying with him for a few days."

I picked up a box of condoms from the corner of her suitcase. "Doctor’s orders, huh?"

She snatched them out of my hand, cheeks flushing.

"It must have fallen in by accident. You’re so immature, making a big deal out of nothing."

"I know you’re upset, so I’ll let this go. Lucas needs me right now. We can talk when I get back."

I was always there when she needed me.

But when I needed her? She was with him.

Was that fair?

Marriage was never about fairness. It was about choosing each other.

I’d chosen her for seven years. Now my heart was empty. No more.

"Fine." I turned toward the bedroom.

I opened her closet and started pulling out her stuff.

Then I saw the photo. My hand froze.

Our wedding picture. In its frame on the shelf.

She was beaming. I was grinning like an idiot, like I had the whole world.

"Adrian, what the hell are you doing?"

She followed me in, panic finally creeping into her voice.

"You’re kicking me out?"

I didn’t look at her. I grabbed the frame and tossed it in the trash.

"Just helping you pack faster. One less trip for you."

"I said it’s only for a few days—"

"Then don’t bother coming back. Take your stuff and your ‘sick’ friend and get out."

Diana fished the frame out of the trash and set it carefully on the shelf. "Quit being so dramatic. I’ll be back once Lucas is better."

Lucas appeared in the doorway, like he’d been waiting for his cue.

"Babe, I sent you that new startup idea. It’s gonna be huge. Check your email."

Diana barely glanced at her phone before nodding. "No need. I’ll have accounting wire you $10 million tomorrow."

I caught a glimpse of the business plan title before her screen went dark.

His tenth startup. Ten times he’d failed before.

Ten million. How many delivery runs? How many all-nighters coding? Would I even live long enough to earn that?

Probably drop dead first, like that 32-year-old developer in the news who worked himself to death.

That could’ve been me—if I’d kept working myself ragged to pay her "debts."

Lucas noticed me staring and smirked.

"What, Adrian? You wanna start a business too? Need some tips from a pro?"

He saw right through me.

Diana rolled her eyes. "Please. He can’t even tell a bull market from a bear market. Let him manage something? He’d probably lose his shirt day trading. He’s always gonna be a corporate drone."

I cut her off. "You done?"

She stopped short.

I pointed at the door. "Then get out. Get the hell out of my apartment."

"Adrian, this is our—"

"No. It’s mine. I pay the rent, the utilities, bought the furniture. What’ve you contributed besides mooching off me for seven years?"

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

Because it was the truth.

For seven years, I’d sent her $10k monthly for her ‘debts’ on top of covering every bill.

I’d skipped meals to buy her designer bags and fancy makeup—afraid she’d get made fun of at work.

And this is what I got? She’s loaded—filthy rich—while I slaved away. She played me for a fool, showered another guy with cash, and had the nerve to call him a ‘friend.’

Diana’s voice turned icy. "Fine. I’m leaving. But don’t come crawling back when you regret this."

"Get out!"

The door slammed shut. The apartment went quiet.

Too quiet. I could hear the fridge humming, my own heartbeat thudding in my ears.

I dropped to my knees. Tears hit the floor. One, two, more.

A grown man, sobbing like a kid.

I don’t know how long I knelt there before my phone buzzed.

I grabbed it. A photo from an unknown number.

Diana’s head on Lucas’s chest, both in a hotel bed.

Message below: “Thanks for freeing her up.”

I stared at that photo for what felt like hours.

Then I typed back: “Thanks for taking out the trash.”

Delivered.

The PI I hired had struggled to get proof of physical cheating—Diana was always careful.

Now they had it.