Chapter 4
Still married.
The words hit me like a scalpel to the chest—precise, devastating, drawing blood where I thought scar tissue had already formed.
"That's not possible." My voice stayed level. Training. Years of compartmentalizing. "David confirmed the filing."
"David works for me." Ethan's jaw tightened. "I told him to delay processing."
Six months. Six months of believing I was free, rebuilding myself piece by piece, convincing myself that Olivia Chen existed without him—
And I was still legally his.
"You had no right."
"I had every right. You're my wife."
The audacity. The absolute, breathtaking audacity.
I turned fully to face him, the fluorescent hospital light casting harsh shadows across his face. He looked thinner. The circles under his eyes were new. Good.
"I was your wife," I said slowly, "when you introduced another woman as yours to five hundred people. I was your wife when you kissed her on stage. I was your wife when you texted me—your wife—to not make a scene."
Each sentence landed. I watched him absorb them, his knuckles whitening around the papers.
"So don't you dare stand here and call me that like it means something."
"It does mean something." His voice broke. "Olivia—"
"Dr. Chen." I corrected him. "I earned that title while you were parading your girlfriend on magazine covers."
He went silent.
The night pressed around us—ambulance sirens in the distance, the hum of the city, the impossible space between two people who once shared a bed.
"I ended things with Serena," he finally said.
"Congratulations. That's none of my business."
"It's entirely your business. I ended it because—"
"Because she left you? Because the PR stunt backfired? Because your mother found out?" I tilted my head. "Which version of this story makes you the hero, Ethan?"
His breath came sharp. "Because I realized what I'd done. Because I walked into that apartment and you were gone and I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I couldn't breathe."
Six months ago, those words would have undone me.
Now they just made me tired.
"Sign the papers," I said.
"No."
"Then I'll get a lawyer. A real one. One who doesn't work for you."
"Olivia—"
"Dr. Chen."
He looked at me—really looked at me—and something in his expression cracked. Not the polished mask he wore in boardrooms. Something raw. Desperate.
"Give me one chance to explain. One dinner. Then if you still want the divorce—"
"I don't need dinner to want a divorce."
"One hour."
"No."
"Thirty minutes."
"Ethan." I lifted my chin. "You had three years of thirty minutes. You spent every single one of them choosing someone else."
I reached forward and took the papers from his hand. He let me, his fingers going slack.
"I'll file these myself. Properly. And if you try to block it again—" I paused. "The NDA protects your reputation. Not mine. Remember that."
His eyes widened. For the first time in our entire relationship, Ethan Cole looked afraid of me.
I walked back into the hospital, papers tucked under my arm, and didn't look back.
Inside, I made it exactly twelve steps before my knees buckled. I caught myself against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cool surface, breathing through the earthquake in my chest.
Still married.
Still his.
Not for long.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I opened the message:
*"He flew to New York the day you left. He's been coming every week for six months. You never saw him because I made sure of it."*
The sender: David.
A second message followed:
*"For what it's worth, Mrs. Cole—he hasn't slept in your apartment since that night. He sleeps at the office. In the room that faces east."*
East. Toward New York.
I deleted both messages, pushed off the wall, and walked back to my shift.
Sentiment wouldn't save me. It never had.
The words hit me like a scalpel to the chest—precise, devastating, drawing blood where I thought scar tissue had already formed.
"That's not possible." My voice stayed level. Training. Years of compartmentalizing. "David confirmed the filing."
"David works for me." Ethan's jaw tightened. "I told him to delay processing."
Six months. Six months of believing I was free, rebuilding myself piece by piece, convincing myself that Olivia Chen existed without him—
And I was still legally his.
"You had no right."
"I had every right. You're my wife."
The audacity. The absolute, breathtaking audacity.
I turned fully to face him, the fluorescent hospital light casting harsh shadows across his face. He looked thinner. The circles under his eyes were new. Good.
"I was your wife," I said slowly, "when you introduced another woman as yours to five hundred people. I was your wife when you kissed her on stage. I was your wife when you texted me—your wife—to not make a scene."
Each sentence landed. I watched him absorb them, his knuckles whitening around the papers.
"So don't you dare stand here and call me that like it means something."
"It does mean something." His voice broke. "Olivia—"
"Dr. Chen." I corrected him. "I earned that title while you were parading your girlfriend on magazine covers."
He went silent.
The night pressed around us—ambulance sirens in the distance, the hum of the city, the impossible space between two people who once shared a bed.
"I ended things with Serena," he finally said.
"Congratulations. That's none of my business."
"It's entirely your business. I ended it because—"
"Because she left you? Because the PR stunt backfired? Because your mother found out?" I tilted my head. "Which version of this story makes you the hero, Ethan?"
His breath came sharp. "Because I realized what I'd done. Because I walked into that apartment and you were gone and I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I couldn't breathe."
Six months ago, those words would have undone me.
Now they just made me tired.
"Sign the papers," I said.
"No."
"Then I'll get a lawyer. A real one. One who doesn't work for you."
"Olivia—"
"Dr. Chen."
He looked at me—really looked at me—and something in his expression cracked. Not the polished mask he wore in boardrooms. Something raw. Desperate.
"Give me one chance to explain. One dinner. Then if you still want the divorce—"
"I don't need dinner to want a divorce."
"One hour."
"No."
"Thirty minutes."
"Ethan." I lifted my chin. "You had three years of thirty minutes. You spent every single one of them choosing someone else."
I reached forward and took the papers from his hand. He let me, his fingers going slack.
"I'll file these myself. Properly. And if you try to block it again—" I paused. "The NDA protects your reputation. Not mine. Remember that."
His eyes widened. For the first time in our entire relationship, Ethan Cole looked afraid of me.
I walked back into the hospital, papers tucked under my arm, and didn't look back.
Inside, I made it exactly twelve steps before my knees buckled. I caught myself against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cool surface, breathing through the earthquake in my chest.
Still married.
Still his.
Not for long.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I opened the message:
*"He flew to New York the day you left. He's been coming every week for six months. You never saw him because I made sure of it."*
The sender: David.
A second message followed:
*"For what it's worth, Mrs. Cole—he hasn't slept in your apartment since that night. He sleeps at the office. In the room that faces east."*
East. Toward New York.
I deleted both messages, pushed off the wall, and walked back to my shift.
Sentiment wouldn't save me. It never had.