Old Ivy is dead

Ivy’s POV

The sheets smelled like expensive cologne and regret.

The hotel room was too bright, sunlight pouring through those massive windows like it had a personal vendetta against my hangover. My head was pounding, my mouth tasted like something had died in it, and my body ached in places that reminded me exactly what I had done last night.

I turned my head slowly, afraid of what I might find.

The other side of the bed was empty. Cold. Adrian was gone.

Of course he was. That’s what people did after one night stands, right? They left before things got awkward. Before the alcohol wore off and reality set in and you had to face the fact that you’d fucked a stranger to forget your husband.

Ex-husband, I corrected myself. Soon to be ex-husband.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest even though there was no one there to see me naked. My clothes were scattered across the floor, a trail of bad decisions leading from the door to the bed.

My phone was on the nightstand, screen full of notifications. My stomach dropped.

Twelve missed calls from a number I didn’t recognize. Three voicemails. And a text from Ethan that just said: Come get your shit.

I stared at those four words until they blurred.

Come get your shit. Not “can we talk” or “I’m sorry” or even “I miss you.” Just come get your shit, like I was some random girl he’d dated for a few weeks instead of his wife of five years.

The tears came before I could stop them. I was so tired of crying. My tear ducts should have been empty by now, completely dried up, but apparently I had an endless supply.

I got dressed quickly, not bothering with a shower. What was the point? I pulled on yesterday’s clothes that smelled like bar smoke and sex, tied my hair back, and called an Uber.

The drive back to Brooklyn felt like traveling to my own execution.

When the car pulled up to our house, my house, the first thing I saw was my suitcases on the front lawn.

Not just suitcases. Boxes. Bags. My clothes spilling out onto the grass like garbage. My favorite lamp sitting on top of a box of books. Picture frames. My jewelry box. Everything I owned just thrown out like trash for the neighbors to see.

“You need help with those?” the Uber driver asked, eyeing the mess.

“No.” My voice came out flat. “Thanks.”

I got out and stood on the sidewalk, staring at the wreckage of my life spread across our perfectly manicured lawn. Mrs. Patterson from next door was watching from her window, not even pretending not to stare. Across the street, old Mr. Chen had stopped watering his plants.

Great. More witnesses to my humiliation.

The front door opened, and Ethan stepped out.

He looked terrible. Eyes red and swollen, hair sticking up like he’d been running his hands through it all night, wearing the same clothes from the party. For a second, just a second, I felt bad for him.

Then I remembered he was the one who did this. He was the one who threw me away without even listening.

“Ethan,” I started walking toward him. “Can we please talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He wouldn’t look at me, just stared at a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “I want you gone.”

“This is my home too.”

“Was.” Finally his eyes met mine, and they were cold. So cold. “It was your home. Not anymore.”

“You can’t just kick me out. I have rights.”

“Rights?” He laughed, bitter and sharp. “You want to talk about rights? You had the right to stay faithful. You had the right to not fuck some random guy and humiliate me in front of everyone I know.”

“I didn’t do that!”

“Stop lying!” His voice cracked, loud enough that I saw Mrs. Patterson’s curtain twitch. “Just stop lying, Ivy. I saw the pictures. We all did.”

“They were fake, Ethan. Someone set me up.”

“Sure. Someone spent all that time and money creating fake photos of you. Someone who hates you so much they’d go through all that trouble.” He shook his head. “You really think I’m that stupid?”

“I think you’re refusing to see the truth because you’ve already made up your mind.”

“My mind was made up the second I saw you with your legs spread for another man.”

The words hit me like a slap. Crude and cruel and designed to hurt. This wasn’t my Ethan. My Ethan was gentle, soft-spoken, the kind of man who cried at commercials and brought me soup when I was sick.

But maybe I never really knew him at all.

“I loved you,” I whispered. “I gave you everything.”

“Yeah, and you gave him everything too, apparently.” He turned to go back inside. “Take your stuff and go. If you’re not gone by tonight, I’m calling the cops and telling them you’re trespassing.”

“Ethan, please—”

The door slammed in my face.

I stood there on our front porch, the porch where we’d had our first kiss as homeowners, where we’d taken a million photos on holidays, where we’d planned our future together. And I felt something inside me crack wide open.

Not break. I was already broken. This was something else. Something harder and colder settling into the space where my heart used to be.

Fine. If he wanted me gone, I’d go.