Chapter 9
The annulment went through on a Wednesday. I found out via email—a court notification, formal and cold, like a doctor pronouncing time of death.
*Marriage between Ethan James Cole and Olivia Marie Chen: VOIDED.*
I read it once. Closed the email. Went to work.
For two weeks, life was blissfully ordinary. Hospital shifts. Late-night studying. Grocery shopping. Calling my parents without the weight of a secret pressing on my chest.
Freedom tasted like instant noodles at midnight and sleeping in the center of my own bed.
Then the package arrived.
No return address. Delivered by private courier—the kind that required a signature and came in a velvet-lined box.
Inside: a flash drive. And a note in handwriting I didn't recognize.
*"He asked me to destroy this after the IPO. I couldn't. You deserve to see it. —David"*
David. Ethan's lawyer. The one who'd delayed my divorce. The one who'd given Serena my number.
I almost threw it out. Almost.
But something—call it instinct, or masochism, or the need for a final answer—made me plug it into my laptop.
The drive contained a single folder: **"For After."**
Inside: one video file and 347 photographs.
I opened the first photo and my breath stopped.
It was me. Sleeping. Early morning light across my face, my hair messy on the pillow, his shadow visible at the frame's edge.
The next: me cooking, unaware, laughing at something off-camera.
Then: me reading on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, wearing his shirt.
Me at my white coat ceremony—taken from across the street, through a crowd. He'd been there. I didn't know.
Me at the tennis court, mid-serve.
Me walking through rain with a yellow umbrella—I remembered that day. He'd said he was in a meeting.
Three hundred and forty-seven photos. All of me. All taken without my knowledge—not in a predatory way, but in the way of someone who couldn't stop looking at something they knew they were losing.
I opened the video.
It was the gala night. Timestamp: 2:47 AM. Our apartment.
Ethan, still in his suit, standing in the middle of the empty living room. My note on the counter. My key beside it.
He read the note. Read it again. Then his legs gave out—not dramatically, not cinematically—just buckled. He hit the floor on his knees and stayed there, the note crushed in his fist.
No sound. The video had no audio.
But I could see his shoulders shaking. Could see him press my note to his forehead. Could see him reach for his phone, dial, wait—and get sent to voicemail.
Then he called again. And again. And again.
Forty-seven calls. I remembered the notification count.
The video ended with him still on the floor, still holding the note, the apartment dark around him.
I closed my laptop.
Sat in silence for a long time.
Then I opened it again—not the photos, not the video. My email.
I typed a message to David: *"Why did you send this?"*
His reply came fast: *"Because he'll never show you himself. And you deserved the full truth before you decide if this is really over."*
I didn't respond.
But I also didn't delete the drive.
And that night, for the first time since leaving San Francisco, I dreamed about him.
*Marriage between Ethan James Cole and Olivia Marie Chen: VOIDED.*
I read it once. Closed the email. Went to work.
For two weeks, life was blissfully ordinary. Hospital shifts. Late-night studying. Grocery shopping. Calling my parents without the weight of a secret pressing on my chest.
Freedom tasted like instant noodles at midnight and sleeping in the center of my own bed.
Then the package arrived.
No return address. Delivered by private courier—the kind that required a signature and came in a velvet-lined box.
Inside: a flash drive. And a note in handwriting I didn't recognize.
*"He asked me to destroy this after the IPO. I couldn't. You deserve to see it. —David"*
David. Ethan's lawyer. The one who'd delayed my divorce. The one who'd given Serena my number.
I almost threw it out. Almost.
But something—call it instinct, or masochism, or the need for a final answer—made me plug it into my laptop.
The drive contained a single folder: **"For After."**
Inside: one video file and 347 photographs.
I opened the first photo and my breath stopped.
It was me. Sleeping. Early morning light across my face, my hair messy on the pillow, his shadow visible at the frame's edge.
The next: me cooking, unaware, laughing at something off-camera.
Then: me reading on the couch, legs tucked beneath me, wearing his shirt.
Me at my white coat ceremony—taken from across the street, through a crowd. He'd been there. I didn't know.
Me at the tennis court, mid-serve.
Me walking through rain with a yellow umbrella—I remembered that day. He'd said he was in a meeting.
Three hundred and forty-seven photos. All of me. All taken without my knowledge—not in a predatory way, but in the way of someone who couldn't stop looking at something they knew they were losing.
I opened the video.
It was the gala night. Timestamp: 2:47 AM. Our apartment.
Ethan, still in his suit, standing in the middle of the empty living room. My note on the counter. My key beside it.
He read the note. Read it again. Then his legs gave out—not dramatically, not cinematically—just buckled. He hit the floor on his knees and stayed there, the note crushed in his fist.
No sound. The video had no audio.
But I could see his shoulders shaking. Could see him press my note to his forehead. Could see him reach for his phone, dial, wait—and get sent to voicemail.
Then he called again. And again. And again.
Forty-seven calls. I remembered the notification count.
The video ended with him still on the floor, still holding the note, the apartment dark around him.
I closed my laptop.
Sat in silence for a long time.
Then I opened it again—not the photos, not the video. My email.
I typed a message to David: *"Why did you send this?"*
His reply came fast: *"Because he'll never show you himself. And you deserved the full truth before you decide if this is really over."*
I didn't respond.
But I also didn't delete the drive.
And that night, for the first time since leaving San Francisco, I dreamed about him.