Chapter 3

In the photos, our coffee table was piled high with expensive restaurant delivery bags—heavy, greasy fast food, sugary desserts, and energy drinks.

I smirked and didn't bother replying. If he wanted to wreck his liver and arteries out of spite, that was his business.

Day after day, he flooded my inbox with pictures. One day it was a hired cleaning lady; the next, lavish solo takeout feasts. He was desperate to show me how "luxurious" his life was.

None of it moved me.

A month passed. I didn't reply once.

Then, on a Saturday morning, my phone rang from an unfamiliar landline.

"Is this the family of Vincent Hayes? Mr. Hayes was rushed to the ER with severe acute gastroenteritis and a dangerously high fever. We need an immediate family member down here."

My heart skipped a beat, but my mind stayed completely cold.

"I'm sorry, I'm out of state and can't make it. Please contact whoever brought him in."

Right before I hung up, I heard Vincent's hoarse, furious groan from the other end of the line: "Evelyn... you vicious, heartless b—"

I ended the call.

The next day, Vincent sent another selfie. He was pale and gaunt, wearing a hospital gown and hooked up to an IV drip.

Evelyn, are you really destroying our marriage just for your mom? I almost died alone in that apartment last night!

I finally replied: How is that my problem? You didn't pay me to be your nurse. Count your blessings. You said you loved your freedom, didn't you?

He went dead silent.

I sneered. Regretting it now? Where was that arrogant attitude when my mother was sick? He had it coming.

After that, Vincent's behavior spiraled into petty vengeance.

He hired a young private maid in her early twenties. It wasn't long before my old neighbor sent me covert photos over text.

Eve, honey, are you away? Vincent is acting out of line. That young girl he hired... they don't look like an employer and an employee. You need to keep an eye on him.

In the photos, Vincent had his arm slung casually over the girl's shoulder as they walked into the lobby, laughing.

Instead of breaking down, a cold, sharp clarity washed over me. I thanked the neighbor, saved every single image to the cloud, and retained a top divorce attorney.

Meanwhile, Vincent kept texting me taunts:

Evelyn, three grand gets me a maid who keeps the house spotless. Not like you, nagging me twenty-four seven.

She does everything I ask and never demands an extra cent.

Money talks. If you've thrown enough of your little tantrum, come home. Maybe I'll be generous and give you an extra thousand a month.

I didn't waste a single breath on him.

My complete radio silence eventually drove him mad. He began asking around mutual contacts and finally discovered that I had transferred my job to another city entirely. That was when panic finally set in. He realized I wasn't playing a game.

His calls became relentless. This time, I actually answered.

"Evelyn! When are you coming back?"

"In two days."

He had clearly prepared an entire speech to chew me out, but my flat answer left him sputtering.

"W-Well... it's about time. Honestly, the way you've been acting—"

"Save the lecture, Vincent. Wait for me at the apartment. We need to talk."

I hung up and started gathering my paperwork.

I had archived every single message, bank statement, and photo he had ever sent. Three months had passed. I was scheduled to return to headquarters for a quarterly review, which was the perfect time to drop the hammer.

I didn't tell him the exact time. First, I stopped by a real estate broker to list our apartment, then took a cab to the building.

I turned my key in the lock and pushed the door open.

A young girl in silk pajamas opened the bedroom door, looking flustered. "Who are you?"

From behind her, Vincent's voice called out, "Who's at the door, babe?"

The second his eyes landed on me, all the color drained from his face. He violently shoved the girl away.

"Evelyn! No! It's not what it looks like!" he stammered, terrified. "She's just the maid! She was cleaning and got all sweaty, so she took a shower here!"

The girl's face flushed crimson. As she opened her mouth to argue, I smiled serenely.

"Don't worry, you don't need to explain anything. I'm just here to drop off some paperwork. He just needs to sign."

I extended the manila folder in my hand.

Vincent looked down. When his eyes caught the bold words—Petition for Dissolution of Marriage—his jaw dropped.

"You're... you're divorcing me?"

"Yes. Sign it."