THREE

Julian pushed the front door open with the casual expectation of noise. The low hum of the kettle, the soft shuffle of slippers and the lights she usually left on for him anytime he was home late.

Instead, the door swung inward to silence. The kind that rang in his ears.

He frowned, stepping inside. The lights were off. The living room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner. His jacket slipped from his fingers and landed on the couch.

“She’ll be back,” he muttered, loosening his tie. “This is just one of her tantrums.”

She had moods. She always did, especially after the baby came. She was always crying and whining about everything. He had learned to tune it out.

Julian walked deeper into the apartment. The nursery door was open. Alarms bells began to ring in Julian's head when he saw the empty crib.

His steps slowed.

“No,” he said softly, almost amused. “That’s not funny.”

He checked the bedroom. Half of her closet was bare. Drawers were open, her jewelry box gone. The photo frames missing from the vanity, the ones she used to wipe dust from every morning even when she was exhausted.

A more carefully look told him she only took what was important to her. The rest, she left. His chest tightened, irritation blooming into something sharper.

Then he saw it. A white envelope was lying on the living room table.

Waiting. Patiently.

Julian picked it up, already annoyed. “What drama is this now?”

The papers slid out easily. DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

His breath stalled. He flipped the pages once. Twice. Her signature stared back at him, calm and deliberate. Not shaky. Not rushed.

At the bottom, a short note in her handwriting:

"Mail this to my lawyer when you’re ready. I won’t be coming back. This marriage is over".

Julian laughed. “She’s lost her mind.”

She couldn’t just leave. Not her. Not the woman who woke at dawn to make him breakfast even when he didn’t eat it. Who memorized his meetings and prepared his suits. Who massaged his shoulders while standing on aching feet.

A woman who worked tirelessly at his company, working several odd roles just to please him.

No! She loved him too much to just leave. How could she survive without him. What about the baby? She had no job and no money. How was she going to take care of the baby?

“She’ll cool off,” he said, tossing the papers back onto the table. “She always does.”

That night, he didn’t sleep. He tossed and turned.

"What if she meant it this time? She has never gone this far, drawing a divorce agreement".

The next day, he went drinking with his friends.

"Did you guys know Susan left me yesterday? She even a divorce agreement too".

A hush immediately fell over them and almost immediately, the entire table burst into laughter.

“Relax,” one of them said over drinks. “She’s throwing a tantrum.”

“Exactly,” another added. “She has nowhere to go. Poor background, remember?”

They placed bets.

“Tonight,” one said confidently.

“Three days,” another shrugged.

“A week max,” someone else snorted. “She’ll come back crying, begging you to take her back.”

Julian joined their laughter. It felt right. Reassuring. On nights like this, he drank, flirted and danced with different women. Normally, she would be home waiting, food warm, bath drawn, baby already asleep.

By the time the alcohol hit him hard, his head was spinning and his phone felt heavier than usual in his hand.

Without thinking, he called her. Twice. The call didn’t connect. He frowned and tried again.

This number is unavailable.

His thumb hovered. Blocked?

“That’s dramatic,” he scoffed, even as something cold crawled down his spine.

He stumbled outside, the night air biting. There was no one to call. No familiar voice to coax him into a cab. No patient sigh.

Julian got home past dawn. The apartment was still silent.

His head pounded. His mouth was dry. His stomach twisted.

“Hey,” he called out hoarsely, dropping his keys. “I’m home.”

Only the housekeeper scurried out, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"Where's Susan?', he asked, irritation clawing at his chest.

"Madam has not been back since she left yesterday", the housekeeper answered timidly.

"She's not back. Fine! Go make me some soup".

"Only madam knows the special recipe she uses to make her hangover soup, sir", the housekeeper answered. "She hand picks the special ingredients she uses in making them".

He mopped at the housekeeper, unable to form words. Was this the hassle she normally went through everytime he came home drunk? How was he never aware of this previously? He waved the housekeeper off angrily.

He collapsed onto the couch, waiting for the sound of movement. For her to appear with soup, water and some painkillers.

Minutes passed. Hours. The pain didn’t ease.

There was no hangover soup. No gentle massage. No whispered scolding to stop drinking too much.

Only silence. For the first time, discomfort sharpened into unease.

Julian grabbed his phone and typed: Come back now and I’ll forget everything. You can still be Mrs Salvatore. Don’t push it.

The messages didn’t send. Red exclamation marks blinked back at him.

Blocked.

His jaw clenched. “You think you can scare me? Let's do this, it's only a matter of time before you come crawling back".