Chapter 2

The hospital smelled like bleach and broken promises.

I walked through the pediatric ward at 8 AM, divorce papers tucked inside my bag like a loaded gun. My heels clicked on the tile floor, each step louder than the last, and I felt every nurse glance up as I passed. I didn't care. I wasn't here to be quiet. I wasn't here to be polite. I was here to end this.

Room 304. The door was cracked open.

I stopped. Through the gap, I could see them. Dimitri was sitting on the edge of Misha's bed, his sleeves rolled up, his hair messy from sleeping in that hospital chair all night. Anya was standing beside him, holding a cup of water. She tilted the cup toward his lips and he leaned forward, drinking directly from her hand, his eyes half closed, trusting, comfortable.

Like a wife feeding her husband.

Something inside me cracked. Not broke. It had broken a long time ago. This was just the sound of the last piece falling.

I pushed the door open and walked in.

Dimitri's head snapped up. His first expression wasn't relief. It wasn't guilt. It was annoyance.

"What are you doing here? Misha just fell back asleep. If you're here to start something, Katya, I swear to God—"

"Start something? I'm here to finish something."

I pulled the divorce papers out of my bag and dropped them on the bedside table.

The room went silent. Anya's hand froze around the water cup. Dimitri stared at the papers like I had just placed a dead animal on the table.

"What the hell is this?"

"Exactly what it looks like, Dimitri. Divorce papers. Sign them."

Anya stepped forward, her voice soft and sweet like honey poured over poison. "Katya, maybe you two should go home and talk about this. This isn't the place. Misha is sick and—"

"I'm not talking to you, Anya." I didn't even look at her. My eyes stayed locked on Dimitri. "Sign the papers."

Misha stirred on the bed, his little eyes opening. The second he saw Dimitri, he reached up with both arms and grabbed onto his shirt.

"Uncle Dima, don't go. Don't go."

Dimitri lifted the boy into his lap, cradling him against his chest. Then he looked at me with that expression I had seen a thousand times. That expression that said I was the problem. I was the unreasonable one. I was the villain in a story where he was just being a good man.

"You see this, Katya? He's sick. He's three years old and he's scared. And you come in here waving divorce papers around like this is some kind of performance. Can you not be understanding for once in your life?"

For once in my life. Like I hadn't been understanding for four straight years. Like I hadn't swallowed every canceled date, every midnight phone call, every holiday he spent at Anya's house instead of ours. Understanding was all I had ever been, and it ate me alive.

"I'm done being understanding, Dimitri. I'm done being patient. I'm done being the wife who sits at home while you play house with your brother's widow."

"Play house? She lost her husband, Katya! My brother is dead! What kind of cold-blooded person are you?"

Your brother has been dead for four years, I wanted to scream. Four years, and you're still sleeping at her bedside, drinking water from her hands, and ditching your wife on your own anniversary. But I didn't scream. I was past screaming.

Anya pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears right on schedule. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have called him last night. I was just so scared about Misha's fever. I didn't mean to cause problems between you two."

Beautiful performance. Oscar worthy. The trembling lip, the watery eyes, the self-blame that wasn't really self-blame. Every word designed to make her look like the helpless victim and me like the jealous monster.

I turned back to Dimitri. He was rubbing Misha's back, and the boy had buried his face in Dimitri's neck, whimpering softly.

Something cold settled inside my chest. Not anger. Something past anger. Something that had stopped caring about being gentle.

I leaned down close to Misha's ear.

"Your uncle is leaving now. And if you don't let go of him, I'll make sure you never see him again."

The boy's eyes went wide. His lower lip shook once, twice, and then he burst into sobs, loud, terrified, clutching Dimitri even tighter.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Dimitri pulled Misha away from me, shielding him with both arms. His face was twisted with something between shock and disgust. "He's a child, Katya! A sick child! What kind of person threatens a three-year-old?"

Anya was crying now too, wrapping her arms around Misha from the other side, the two of them forming a perfect little family portrait with the child between them. And me, standing on the outside. Always on the outside.

"The kind of person who wants a divorce." My voice came out flat. Dead. "If you're a man, Dimitri, you'll sign those papers right now and let me walk out of this hospital."

"You're insane."

"Maybe. But I'll be insane and free. Sign the papers."

The room was so quiet I could hear Misha's hiccupping sobs and the heart monitor beeping from the next room. Dimitri stared at me. Anya stared at me. The papers sat on the table between us like a dare.

I didn't flinch. I didn't move. I didn't feel anything anymore.

Four years of competing with a ghost and a widow, and I was finally done performing.

"Sign. The. Papers."