Perfect Match

Tina's POV

The bang of the door slamming jolted me like a gunshot. I flinched, my hand instinctively going to my chest as though I could steady the furious pounding of my heart. My cheeks were wet, and when I brushed the back of my hand across my face, I realized the tears had betrayed me again. I wiped at them furiously, angry at myself for being weak enough to cry over him.

I was the stupid one, I thought bitterly. The stupid one for wishing him well in his love life. The stupid one for expecting that he would ever be anything other than the cold, unfeeling man he has always been. The stupid one for believing he might eventually see me, truly see me.

And yet, the tears wouldn’t stop. The more I ordered them away, the more freely they flowed, hot and relentless, as if mocking my command. I had been someone who almost never cried. Someone who had learned long ago that tears were wasted on people who did not care. Yet Simon — the man who had become my husband in name but never in heart — had reduced me to a sniveling mess in my own home.

I hated him for that.

I hated him for the way his indifference hollowed me out. I hated the way his silence spoke louder than words, the way he could look right through me as though I were nothing but a ghost haunting his periphery. And more than Simon, I hated myself for still clinging to hope, even after all this time, that he might one day soften. That maybe, hidden under that rigid composure, he might hold even a flicker of warmth.

Alicia had once told me he was capable of love. His mother — sweet, tender Alicia — had painted him as a man who simply needed patience, who needed someone to wait long enough for his defenses to crumble. But what good was patience when every expectation I nurtured only ended up crushed beneath his heel?

My anger flared hotter. I grabbed my phone, swiping at the wetness on my cheeks one last time, and without hesitation, reapplied for divorce. My finger pressed the screen with finality. This time, I was done. This time, I was not going to let Alicia coax me into giving him another chance.

As though on cue, my phone began to ring. Her name lit up the screen.

“Alicia.”

I let it ring. I watched her name blink insistently, begging to be answered, but I did not move. When it finally stopped, I powered the phone off. I knew exactly what she would say — the same words she always did. Give him time. He will come around. He is not as cold as he seems. I couldn’t bear to hear it again. Not when the weight of disappointment had already settled so heavily in my bones.

By morning, my decision had solidified into something hard and resolute. I waited upstairs until I heard the familiar hum of Simon’s car engine, then the sound of him pulling away. Only then did I descend, intent on retrieving the divorce papers from the mail. I planned to pack a few belongings, call a cab, and leave without another word.

But as I reached the stairs, something unexpected stopped me.

Laughter.

A sound so foreign, so startling, that I froze midway.

It was his laugh.

Deep, rich, rolling through the house like a melody I had never been allowed to hear. For a moment, my heart clenched painfully, as though I’d been stabbed and soothed in the same breath. His laugh was warm — intoxicating — and before I knew it, butterflies had erupted in my stomach. For months, I had imagined what it might be like to hear him laugh, to see joy break through the perpetual storm cloud on his face. And now, here it was, filling the house like sunlight breaking through stained glass.

But the light was not mine.

I followed the sound, each step sinking heavier than the last, until I reached the living room. And there she was.

The reason behind his laughter.

She was beautiful, achingly so — sleek black hair that fell down her shoulders like silk, red lips that curled into an easy smile. She clung to his arm as though she had always belonged there, as though his body had been molded with a space meant just for her. Her hand grazed his chest, intimate and possessive, and she tilted her face up toward his with the casual assurance of someone who knew she was wanted.

And he wanted her.

Simon, the man who had never spared me even a genuine smile, looked alive with her. His hand rested at her waist like it had found its home, his eyes softened in ways I had begged for but never received. Watching them was like having my ribs cracked open.

Then her gaze found mine.

Sarah. I knew her name, though I had never met her before. The girlfriend. The woman who, apparently, had always been in his heart even as I tried to carve out a place there for myself.

The instant our eyes met, she assessed me with a single sweep of her gaze — and dismissed me. She nestled closer into him, lips brushing his neck, fingers tightening on his arm. When she spoke, her voice was sugar laced with venom.

“Who’s that lady? Is she one of the maids?”

Simon glanced at me, then back to her. “Pay her no mind,” he said coolly. “Remember I told you about her? She’s my wife. But no worries, she’ll be gone soon.”

The words struck harder than any slap.

I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. The sheer gall of pretending I was nothing more than an inconvenience, a contract to be erased. My gaze flicked to the oversized wedding portrait hanging on the wall — the one Alicia had insisted on framing — and bile rose in my throat. She knew. Sarah knew exactly who I was.

She pouted, dragging her nails across his chest. “I thought she would have been long gone.”

“I’m waiting,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her knuckles. “Waiting for the public to lose interest. So it won’t affect the stock prices too much.”

Ah. So that was it. Not love. Not honor. Not marriage. Just business. Just the Valero image, pristine and untouchable. My humiliation had been neatly folded into his empire’s profit margin.

Something in me snapped.

I stepped fully into the room,

“Simon,” I said, my voice sharper than I expected, “you don’t need to trouble yourself with applying for divorce. I’ve already filed. My signature is there. Yours is all that’s missing. Do what you want with it — sign it, shred it, I don’t care anymore.”

His head jerked toward me, the warmth in his expression extinguished in an instant, replaced with fury. “Tina, I’ve—”

“No,” I cut him off. “Don’t. Just stop. I don’t even want to know what excuse you’ll conjure this time.”

For once, my voice didn’t tremble. My anger gave it steel. “It was my mistake. Marrying you because your mother assured me you were different. That beneath the frost, you were kind. I was the fool who believed her. I accept that now. And I’ll rectify it. I barged into your life, uninvited. Now I’ll leave.”

His jaw tightened. His hand twitched at Sarah’s arm. “You will not leave this house without my permission.”

I laughed then — a sharp, humorless sound. “Get over yourself, Simon. You’re my husband, not my father. You don’t get to dictate my steps anymore. And don’t worry about your precious company. I’ll stay out of the public eye until you’re ready to announce it. Your stock prices are safe.”

I picked up my phone and wallet from the side table. That was all I needed.

As I passed them, I paused, meeting both of their eyes. “I would have said ‘have a nice life,’ but let’s not pretend. You’re an asshole, Simon. And you,” I said, turning to Sarah, “you’re a pretentious bitch. The two of you are perfect for each other. So have a not-so-nice life.”

I left before either of them could respond. His voice followed me down the hall, barking threats, commanding me to stop. But I didn’t.

When I stepped outside, the wind rushed against my face, cool and sharp. It tangled in my hair, wrapped around my body, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like cleansing. Like freedom. I took in a deep breath, filling my lungs with air that didn’t taste like grief, breathing that felt trouble-free.

“But Oh!!"

"How wrong I was.”