003

Noya’s POV

Morning light cut across the bedroom floor like nothing had ever gone wrong.

I stood at the kitchen counter, coffee cooling in my hands, and watched Ethan move through the routine we had shared for years. He poured cereal. Checked his phone. Kissed the side of my head out of habit as he passed.

The same casual affection he used to give me.

The same mouth that had told me I should have died instead of Lily.

My fingers tightened around the mug until the ceramic creaked.

“You’re quiet this morning,” he said, not looking up from his screen. “Bad dream again?”

I stared at the back of his neck. At the place I had once pressed my face when I was scared. “Something like that.”

He hummed, already distracted. “I need you to drop by Lily’s place later. She texted. Her sink is leaking again and she doesn’t want to call a plumber. You always handle that stuff better than I do.”

The words landed soft. Ordinary. Like he was asking me to pick up milk.

Lily.

The woman he had loved while he married me. The woman whose child he had claimed as his own while I carried his other one to the grave. The woman whose name he still whispered in his sleep.

Something cold and sharp slid into place behind my ribs.

I set the mug down carefully.

“No.”

Ethan finally looked up. Confusion flickered across his face, followed by the mild irritation I used to smooth over with apologies. “What do you mean, no? It’s just a sink, Noya. You’ve done it a hundred times.”

“I said no.”

He put his phone down. The shift in his posture was small, but I felt it. The quiet expectation that I would fold. That I always folded.

“Don’t start with the attitude,” he said, voice lowering the way it did when he wanted me to feel unreasonable. “She’s basically family. We supported her for years. You’re going to act like this over a leaky faucet?”

Family.

The word tasted like blood.

I walked around the counter until only a few feet of tiled floor separated us. My heart was steady. My hands were steady. The old version of me would have already been explaining, softening, offering to go after work so he wouldn’t be upset.

That version was gone.

“I’m not going,” I said. “And I’m not fixing her sink. Or her problems. Or anything else that belongs to her.”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“Nothing’s wrong with me.” I held his gaze. “Something’s wrong with the way you still think I’m the woman who will drop everything for her.”

He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Are you jealous? Is that what this is? After all this time?”

Jealous.

The word almost made me smile. Cold. Thin.

I stepped closer. Close enough to see the faint surprise in his eyes when I didn’t look away.

“I’m not jealous, Ethan.” My voice came out quiet and clear. “I’m done.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.

He stared at me like I had spoken a language he didn’t recognize. “Done with what?”

“This.” I gestured between us. “The marriage. The habit of you treating me like the person who cleans up after your choices. I’m done.”

Color rose in his neck. “You’re being dramatic. It’s too early for this.”

“I’m filing for divorce.”

The words left my mouth clean. Final. They hung in the kitchen air between the smell of coffee and toast.

Ethan went very still.

Then he laughed again, sharper this time. “You’re serious? Over a sink? Over Lily?”

“Over everything.”

He moved toward me. Not threatening, not yet, but with the old confidence of a man who had never needed to raise his voice to make me retreat. “You’re not thinking straight. You always get emotional when you’re tired. We’ll talk about this later when you’ve calmed down.”

I didn’t step back.

When his hand reached for my arm the way it always had—possessive, familiar, certain I would yield—I moved first.

My palm cracked across his face hard enough to snap his head to the side.

The sound was sharp and final in the quiet kitchen.

Ethan staggered half a step. His hand flew to his cheek. Shock wiped every other expression from his face.

I lowered my hand. My palm stung. My pulse was a steady, controlled roar in my ears.

“Don’t touch me,” I said.

He stared at me like he was seeing a stranger wearing his wife’s skin.

“Noya—”

“I want a divorce.” My voice didn’t shake. “I want it clean. I want it fast. And I want you to understand something very clearly.”

I leaned in just enough that he had to hear every word.

“The woman who used to beg you to stay, who used to fix everything you broke, who used to put your life ahead of her own—is dead. She died behind a locked gate while you watched. What you’re looking at now is what’s left.”

Ethan’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

I turned away before he could find his voice, walked to the bedroom, and locked the door behind me.

Only when the lock clicked did I let my back rest against the wood.

My hand still burned.

My heart still raced.

But for the first time since I woke up in this body again, the air in my lungs felt like it belonged to me.

Outside the door, Ethan finally found his voice.

“Noya! Open this door. We’re not done talking!”

I closed my eyes and smiled, small and cold.

We were done talking a long time ago.

He just didn’t know it yet.