After The Divorce: He Wanted Me Back

Isabella

I used to believe silence meant peace. That gentle quiet that tucked you in at night, soft as a blanket, where even the ticking clock felt like a lullaby.

But in this house—glass walls, marble floors, ceilings so high they swallowed sound—silence didn’t soothe. It suffocated.

My fork scraped against porcelain, sharp in the cavernous dining room. Across from me, a plate of untouched food cooled, just like it had the past three nights. Gabriel wasn’t coming home. Again.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. After five years of marriage, I’d learned billion-dollar deals and boardroom wars were the only things that held his attention. Not anniversaries. Not birthdays. Not me.

I lifted my glass of wine—Chardonnay, not the expensive red he preferred. Why waste it on dinners I always ate alone? The bitterness lingered on my tongue, heavier than the alcohol.

“Mrs. Thorne?”

I looked up. Ana, one of the staff, hovered in the doorway, hands knotted in front of her, eyes flicking nervously between me and Gabriel’s untouched plate.

“Would you like us to clear Mr. Thorne’s dinner?”

I forced a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Yes, thank you, Ana.”

She nodded and slipped away, leaving me with the echo of her footsteps. I set down my glass, staring at the empty chair. Empty seats. Empty promises. Empty everything.

My phone buzzed beside my plate. A flicker of hope—snuffed out just as quickly. Not Gabriel. Never Gabriel.

It was Mia, my best friend since college. He’s late again, isn’t he?

I hesitated, thumbs hovering. I wanted to lie. To say he was running late, that any moment now he’d loosen his tie, kiss my temple, act like the husbands in the romance movies Mia adored. But lying was pointless. Mia saw through me years ago.

Yes. Still at work.

Her reply came quick. You deserve more than this, Isa.

My throat tightened. She was right. And the truth stung.

I shoved the phone aside and crossed the room barefoot, the marble floor cold against my skin, frustration burning hot beneath it.

At the window, the city sprawled before me in glittering defiance—thousands of lights, each one belonging to someone who wasn’t me. My reflection stared back: dark hair falling loose, a silk dress that suddenly felt absurdly elegant for a dinner eaten in solitude, and eyes that looked lonelier than I wanted to admit.

This wasn’t the life I dreamed of.

I married Gabriel Thorne because once upon a time, he had been my everything. My childhood best friend, the boy who held my hand on the swings, who swore he’d give me the world someday. And for a while, he did. Our first year of marriage was laughter and midnight drives and whispered promises. But somewhere between the mergers and meetings, he stopped seeing me. Or maybe I stopped seeing him.

A familiar ache bloomed in my chest, and I pressed a hand there, as if I could hold myself together.

“Mrs. Thorne.”

I turned. James, the butler, stood with his usual composure.

“Mr. Thorne just called. He’ll be working late at the office and won’t be home tonight.”

The words knocked the air from me, even if I already knew. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t shocking. But hearing it aloud cut deeper than silence.

“Thank you, James,” I whispered.

He bowed and left.

And suddenly, the silence was unbearable.

I climbed the grand staircase, fingers brushing the polished banister. The house gleamed—Italian art, crystal chandeliers, rugs that cost more than my first car. All of it beautiful. All of it his. I had always been just another fixture.

In our opulent bedroom, I stripped out of the silk dress and slipped into one of Gabriel’s old college T-shirts. The cotton was faded, the scent long gone, but it comforted me more than the silks ever could.

I curled into the California king bed, staring at the empty side. Sometimes I used to reach out in the dark, pretending to find his warmth. Tonight, I didn’t bother.

Sleep refused me. Memories came instead. His first kiss under my parents’ oak tree. His vows on our wedding day, voice cracking with emotion. Our first year—burnt pancakes, flour fights, laughter that filled every corner of our tiny apartment.

Where had that man gone?

My phone buzzed again. This time, Mia’s call. I answered on the second ring.

“Isa, how are you holding up?” Her voice was soft, warm.

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

I laughed, brittle. “I don’t know what to do, Mia. I love him, but it feels like I’m invisible. Like I’m just… furniture. Expensive, but unnecessary.”

Her words sliced through me. Deep down, I knew she was right.

“Do you think he loves me?” I whispered.

Silence. Then, softly, “I think Gabriel loves you in the only way he knows how. But Isa, is that enough for you?”

The question lingered long after I hung up.

By dawn, staring at the ceiling as sunlight spilled into the room, I knew my answer.

No.

It would never be enough.

The next morning, I sat in Elaine Cruz’s law office, my palms damp against my skirt.

“So,” she said, flipping open a folder, “you’re certain you want to proceed with divorce, Mrs. Thorne?”

The word felt heavy, final. Divorce. A door slammed shut.

“Yes.” My voice wavered, then steadied. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Elaine studied me carefully. “You’re not under pressure? Not afraid?”

“No. Gabriel would never hurt me.” Not physically, anyway. His wounds were quieter. Invisible.

She nodded, launching into assets, accounts, properties. Her words blurred. All I heard was the sound of my life being dismantled piece by piece.

When she closed the folder at last, her voice softened. “Choosing yourself can be the bravest thing you ever do.”

I left the office with divorce papers in my purse and a hollow ache in my chest.

Back at the mansion, the silence welcomed me like an old enemy. I carried the folder into Gabriel’s study, set it on his immaculate mahogany desk. The divorce petition stared up at me, my signature inked at the bottom. His was all that remained.

My heart twisted. Would he even care? Or would he sign with the same cold efficiency he used on merger contracts?

I sank into his leather chair, running my fingers across the grooves in the desk, remembering all the nights I’d left dinners untouched while he sat here, poring over numbers and charts. His empire had always mattered more.

I pressed my palms together until my knuckles whitened. This was real.

My hand drifted unconsciously to my stomach. Weeks late.

Yesterday, alone in the bathroom, I’d stared at two pink lines until my vision blurred. A baby. Gabriel’s baby.

A sob caught in my throat, but I swallowed it. This didn’t change anything. I couldn’t stay. Not for him. Not even for this child. I refused to chain myself—or my baby—to a love that no longer existed.

Still, I couldn’t deny the fierce surge of protectiveness that filled me. This child was mine. I would love them enough for two.

For the first time in years, I felt steady. My chest still ached, but beneath it was steel.

I was leaving.

And if Gabriel Thorne wanted to sign away our marriage as easily as one of his billion-dollar deals, then so be it.