You Dumped Me, Now Watch Me (The last call)

Lyra heard the muffled moan, followed by the creak of furniture. Her entire body froze. 

She had just returned from an international merger negotiation—a grueling three-day trip she had undertaken on behalf of her husband, Tristan Cole. He was supposed to meet her at the airport, but he never showed up.

He’s probably stuck in traffic, she had told herself on the ride home. Or finishing a late call.

The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly as she approached the bedroom they had shared for six years.

For a moment she desperately wanted to believe she was mistaken. Her instincts screamed to stop, but her feet moved involuntarily. 

The door was slightly ajar. Without hesitation, Lyra peeked inside.

Tristan and a woman who looked like a high-fashion model were tangled on the bed—her matrimonial bed.

“Oh, fuck me… Tris…”

The woman’s soft cries filled the room. Her messy hair swung with every movement as Tristan held her tighter. They were so entirely lost in each other that they never noticed her standing in the shadow of the frame.

The sight crushed Lyra. It felt as if her heart had stopped beating. She couldn’t push the door wide and scream. She could only clamp a hand over her mouth and sob silently into her palm.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

A careless shift of the bed caused their wedding portrait to crash to the floor with a deafening thud. 

Yet, they didn't even look up.

“Mmmh—fuck—” Tristan groaned, his pace turning reckless, each thrust driving the image deeper into Lyra’s mind until tears blurred everything.

She gripped her chest, breath coming short and sharp. A panic attack clawed at the edges of her vision. She had known he had been distant for months. She had told herself it was just the natural quiet of a long marriage. Never once had she imagined he was filling their bed while she bled herself dry securing overseas investors for his failing company.

Unable to watch another second, Lyra turned to leave, but her hip clipped a decorative vase on the wall shelf. It hit the hardwood and shattered into pieces, the sharp snap finally cutting through the bedroom fog.

Ignoring it, Lyra walked straight into the living room, hands shaking so hard she almost dropped the crystal glass as she poured a finger of straight liquor. 

She downed it in one burning swallow. Breathe. Just breathe.

“Lyra,”

Tristan’s voice broke the heavy air. Her head whipped around to find him standing there, sweating, at least decent in a pair of lounge pants. He knew he had been caught, yet his face was entirely devoid of guilt or remorse.

“Was this why you couldn't pick me up from the airport?” Lyra asked, her voice dangerously steady as she poured a second drink. 

“Too busy playing house with your mistress?”

Tristan's jaw tightened, a flash of irritation crossing his features.

“She is not my mistress. She is moving into the house,” he said coldly, refusing to meet her eyes. “As my fiancée.”

A bitter, hysterical laugh slipped past her lips. She waited for him to crack a smile, to admit it was a cruel joke. But Tristan was dead serious.

“Tristan…” She shook her head. “That isn't funny.”

“And I'm not joking,” Tristan snapped, his tone flat and unyielding. 

“I want a divorce, Lyra.”

Her laughter died instantly. Through her blurry vision, she spotted a thick brown envelope resting on the dining table. Feeling sick to her stomach, she crossed the room, ripped it open, and stared down at the bold, mocking text:

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

Her hands turned to ice. She blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the fog, but the words stayed burned into the paper.

“I'm sorry you had to find out this way,” Tristan murmured, completely unbothered.

“Why are you doing this?” The question cracked out of her despite every effort to keep control.

Tristan cleared his throat, entirely unmoved. “I don’t love you anymore.”

The words hit harder than a physical blow. She searched his face for a flicker of regret—anything to prove he was lying—and found a wasteland.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispered, her frame trembling. “We’ve been married for three years, together for six. You don’t just wake up and stop loving someone.”

“I didn’t,” he replied without an ounce of warmth. “I stopped a long time ago.”

Lyra let out a dry, harsh laugh, closing the distance between them.

“A long time ago? So while I was flying across continents trying to secure your funding, you were drawing up exit plans?” She shoved the divorce papers toward his chest. “A divorce? While a strange woman sleeps in my bed?”

“I am trying to be calm, Lyra,” Tristan rubbed his temples impatiently. “Don't push me!”

“No, Tristan!” The grief boiling in her chest instantly melted into blinding rage. If anyone had a right to scream, it was her. “You are throwing away six years—for what? For her?”

“For my own sanity, damn it!” he roared, slamming a fist against his palm.

The violent motion made Lyra flinch, the confusion overriding her pain. “What are you talking about?”

Tristan turned away, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling windows to stare out at the city lights.

“Do you know what people call me behind my back?” he asked, his voice bitter. When Lyra stayed silent, he answered his own question. 

“Mr. Lyra Quinn.”

Her eyebrows knitted together. She had never heard him utter those words before.

“They don't see my company, my degrees, my work,” he spat. “They only see yours. They say I'm only successful because my wife keeps bailing me out.”

“I saved your company because we were partners, Tristan,” she whispered, her heart sinking into her boots. “I never asked for the spotlight.”

“That's the problem,” he turned back to face her, his eyes cold. “You never asked for it, but they handed it to you anyway.”

Lyra looked at him, disbelief in her eyes. Where had the man she married six years ago gone—the man who celebrated her successes and seemed to see her as his entire world?

Now, he felt like a complete stranger.

“So…” she breathed, the horror setting in. “You hate me because I was good at my job?”

“I hate living in your shadow.”

The brutal finality of his words stole the remaining oxygen from her lungs. 

A heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion washed over her, making the room tilt sideways. Her knees buckled just as the floor rushed up to meet her, and Tristan lunged forward, catching her dead weight before she hit the ground.

“Lyra!”

For the first time that morning, real panic cracked through his voice.