Chapter 7
In the background, someone giggled–probably Elizabeth. I heard glasses clink, the unmistakable sound of luxury and cruelty blending in crystal.
“We’re in paradise,” Edmund said, voice slick with venom dressed in silk. “The twins are gorging on waffles. Elizabeth’s in a white bikini that costs more than your entire wardrobe. Meanwhile you’re rotting in that dusty old estate like a ghost in her own tomb.”
The rage in me crawled up slow, thick and molten, dragging heat to my cheeks, my ears, my
chest.
“She says her dogs need feeding,” he added, casually cruel. “You remember those Great Danes don’t you? The ones that nearly knocked you flat last year?” He chuckled. “She said to tell you not to cry if they growl. They don’t like weakness.”
Then Elizabeth, honey–sweet and sharp as glass:
“Don’t forget the bath, Doris! They like the rose shampoo. Not that cheap crap you wear.”
My jaw locked. My teeth ground together like gears made of bone.
Edmund again, laced in syrup and cruelty.
“I’ll wire you some money. Go buy their food. Be quick about it. Don’t mess it up–though God knows, you’re good at that.”
And then… right before the call could end, his voice dipped, low and final.
“Let’s talk when I’m back. And for the love of God, Doris… drop the act. You’re no saint. You’re a kept woman. This is the cost.”
That was it.
That was the moment I found my voice. Clear. Calm. Sharper than a blade.
“The divorce papers are waiting for you.”
Silence. Cold and telling.
Then that laugh. Mocking. Mean. Familiar.
“Divorce me?” he said, like he didn’t believe it. “And go where? To who? You’ve got no family. No friends. No job. You’re a ghost, Doris. A ghost with a last name I gave you. You leave me, and you’re not just poor–you’re forgotten. You think you can survive without me?”
He paused, and when he spoke again, it cut like glass.
“You only exist because I let you.”
I chuckled.
Not the nervous kind. Not the tired kind. The real kind. The kind that tastes like freedom in your mouth. Then I hung up.
I opened Lester’s chat. Snapped a picture of the signed divorce papers. Sent it.
Blocked him, too. And just like that, the world went quiet.
No noise in my head. No ache in my ribs. No weight behind my eyes.
I lay down on that antique bed and felt peace settle into me like warm light through an open
Happy Divorce. My Husband!.
alt
H
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5:15 am DDDD.
window. For the first time in years, I slept. Not restlessly. Not half–awake.
I slept soundly. Like someone who remembered who the hell she was.
***
EDMUND’S POV
She hung up on me.
I stood there for a second, staring at my phone like I was waiting for it to apologize. Then–ping photo message. I opened it, already half–smirking.
There it was. A clean, crisp shot of the divorce papers. Her signature scrawled in black ink like she thought it meant something. My side? Blank. Of course. Like she forgot who made the rules in this marriage.
I laughed. Loud. Damn near doubled over.
“Elizabeth!” I called, holding out the phone like a trophy. “You gotta see this.”
She strolled over in that silk robe she wears when she wants attention. I showed her the photo. “Look at this. Doris thinks she’s some kind of rebel now. Sent me divorce papers. Blocked Lester too. Can you believe that?”
Elizabeth took the phone, squinted, then rolled her eyes with that little scoff she does when she’s pretending she’s not amused.
“She’s bluffing,” I said, grinning. “She can’t live without my name. Without my money. Without the house. She’s addicted to the life I gave her.”
Elizabeth chuckled, too–but it wasn’t the warm kind. It had teeth.
“She was never built for this life,” she said, tossing the phone back at me like it was dirty. “She’s a relic. Sentimental. Soft. You should’ve dumped her ten years ago.”
I laughed again, sharp and dismissive. “Yeah, well… back then she didn’t talk back. She just smiled and hosted dinner parties.”
I walked over to Lester, lounging in the suite’s second bedroom, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t just witness a trainwreck. I tossed mine to him.
“Your mother’s overreacting again,” I said. “Jesus. Why do I marry women like that? Always drama. Always fragile. Headache, man. Complete headache.”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at the screen. Typical.
By the time we got dressed for the gala dinner on the upper deck, I was in a better mood. The mirror in our suite was huge–floor to ceiling. I adjusted my cufflinks, checked my teeth. Smiled.
“Still got it at fifty” I muttered to myself.
But I didn’t turn away right away. The lines were deeper than I remembered. Eyes puffier. Little sag around the jaw.
I ran a hand through my hair, fixed the part. Shrugged it off. The lighting was just bad.
The party was… well, the usual. Champagne, laughing people with too much money. meaningless conversations. I pitched myself to some venture guy from Singapore–told him about our latest acquisition. Left out the part where we cleaned the money through four fake
Chapter 7
2/3 24.75
5:15 am
shell companies in Dubai and Belize. Details bore people anyway.
A young hostess–barely legal, long legs, red dress–started giggling at everything I said. Leaned in close, touched my shoulder like she was fascinated. I gave her the charming smirk, the one that used to get me into all the right beds in my thirties. But there was something about her eyes. Something that reminded me of Doris when she was young. Before the twins. Before she forgot how to laugh without permission.
That annoyed the hell out of me. I walked away before I got too sentimental.
Later that night, I was out on the balcony. Waves black and endless under the moon. Elizabeth was inside, drunk on something French and overpriced, dancing with someone she probably shouldn’t be.
I sat on the railing with a whiskey in hand, opened my phone again.
Scrolled back to the message.
The divorce papers.
Zoomed in. Her signature. I smirked.
It was real.
It was final.
I was still laughing, sure. But quieter this time. Not the gut–busting kind. More like the type of laugh you do when someone beats you at your own game and you’re not sure how. I took another sip. Let the wind hit my face.
She really signed it. She really meant it.
…We’ll see how long that lasts. Because honey, she won’t.
