Chapter 4: The Divorce

"Ma’am, are we going home?" Maddie sighed softly, understanding my intent.

She stood by the window, watching the late afternoon sun slant across the yard, her own sadness tucked behind a practical smile.

"I miss Dad." Wiping the blood from my lips, I asked Maddie to bring me paper and a pen.

The words stuck in my throat, but Maddie moved quietly, fetching the old box of stationery from my dresser drawer. She knew how much I hated loose ends.

I didn’t want to fight or compete. A side character could never compare to the heroine.

Sometimes letting go is the only way to win. I scribbled out a few lines, my handwriting shaky but resolute.

When I reached Graham Carter’s house, two new security guards stood at the door, the bright "Q" on their jackets marking them as Quinn’s people.

It was a new level of formality—a reminder that things had changed for good. Their eyes were hard, their stance rigid, as if daring anyone to cross the threshold.

Before I could react, a sharp baton pressed against my neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

The world shrank to the prickling sensation of pain, the metallic scent of blood sharp in the summer air. Maddie gasped, her outrage breaking through the tension.

"Ma’am!" Maddie glared at the guard, about to rush forward, but I held her back.

I squeezed her hand, grounding myself. There was no use adding another scene to an already messy story.

"Graham Carter is my husband." At my words, the baton was withdrawn, but they still blocked the entrance, their voices icy.

There was no recognition in their eyes, no memory of the laughter and warmth that used to fill this house. The sign on the mailbox might as well have been someone else’s name now.

"Dr. Carter does not allow anyone to enter."

Their words were final, the kind of cold bureaucracy you find in hospital waiting rooms and DMV lines.

I froze, bitterness welling up. In the past, I could come and go as I pleased.

Every memory stung—late-night snacks in the kitchen, movie marathons on the old living room couch, impromptu backyard picnics when the weather was good. All gone, just like that.

Many important folks visited, and there were always guards, but he always said, "My wife doesn’t need to be stopped."

He’d say it with a wink, proud of his own rule, making me feel special even when I felt like an afterthought.

He promised that no matter when or where, I could enter if I wanted.

He carved that promise into my world, a lifeline I clung to on the bad days.

But now, "anyone" included me.

It was the kind of rejection you feel in your bones, a door slamming shut on all the good years.

Three years of affection—not shallow, but deep—the contrast was too much. My heart ached.

It throbbed like an old bruise, fresh and painful all over again. The ache settled in my chest, spreading through my limbs.

Yet facing the guards’ cold stares, I swallowed my tears, stepped back, and said, "Sorry to bother you."

My voice was steady, but my insides quaked. Sometimes dignity is all you have left.

Maddie had grown up with me and knew what I meant. Even if she was unwilling, she could only wait with me outside the house.

She wrapped her arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the worst of the afternoon sun. We stood together in the growing shadows, silent but united.

The sun beat down; I was close to collapse, but I couldn’t leave. I feared that if I left, I’d hesitate and stay.

Every minute felt like a test of willpower. Sweat prickled along my brow, but I refused to move, not until I’d said my piece.

Though my vision blurred, I stood firm.

The world narrowed to Maddie’s hand in mine, the distant hum of cicadas, the pulse of pain behind my eyes.

I don’t know how long I waited—maybe until dusk—before I saw Graham Carter’s figure.

He came home as the sun dipped low, casting the whole street in orange and gold. He looked older, heavier than before—a man who’d carried too many burdens home from work.

He walked toward me against the dying light, his once-gentle face now tired, his usual meticulous appearance now disheveled.

His tie was askew, shirt wrinkled, hair flopping over his eyes. Even his shoes looked scuffed, as if he’d run a marathon he hadn’t planned for.

I’d only seen him so haggard when I was sick. I thought that side of him was reserved for me alone.

He always said my pain was his pain, but seeing him like this now, for someone else, hurt worse than any fever.

But seeing him like this now, I could only find it ironic. All those vows to love me, to never let me down—they were all lies.

Promises made in the dark mean little in the light of day. I held myself tall, refusing to let my voice waver.

"Why are you waiting here? Have you eaten dinner?" Graham seemed surprised, wanting to put his arm around my shoulders as usual.

His hand hovered midair, as if unsure whether he still had the right to touch me. The old concern was there, but it rang hollow now.

I dodged, blood trickling from my lips, the wound on my neck throbbing.

He froze, eyes wide, caught between guilt and panic. For once, I felt like I had the upper hand.

"Who hurt you? Why is there blood..." Graham seemed stunned, as if he hadn’t seen me this sick in a long time.

His voice cracked, the doctor’s calm giving way to the husband’s fear. It was almost enough to make me soften—almost.

I didn’t answer, just handed him a letter.

The envelope shook in my hands, but I forced myself not to look away as he took it.

He frowned and opened it. In the next moment, his face turned pale.

The color drained from his cheeks. For a second, I thought he might faint. He looked between me and the letter as if the words might rearrange themselves.

"Natalie, you want to divorce me?" He seemed unable to believe it, a rare light flashing in his usually calm eyes.

His voice was ragged, each word barely holding together. It was the first time I’d ever seen him truly afraid.

"Yes." I calmly wiped the blood from my lips, holding back Maddie, who wanted to question him. My hands shook, but my voice didn’t. I’d practiced this goodbye in my head a thousand times.

All that talk of suffering for love is nonsense. I have never been willing to sell myself short.

Love, sure. But self-respect comes first. I’d learned that from my mom, from my dad, from every broken promise I’d ever survived.

Men—there are plenty in the world. Am I really gonna put all my eggs in one basket for a guy who can’t choose me?

Dad used to joke that there were more fish in Lake Michigan than men worth the trouble, but either way, I wasn’t about to drown over one.

"Why? Didn’t you promise..." He started to say something about my promise that night, but then seemed to remember he’d left on the day of my illness.

His words died in his throat, the realization hitting him like a punch to the gut. There was nothing left to say.

"I’m sorry, Natalie. The mayor’s wife was dying—I had no choice but to go." He looked at me, love shining through his regret.

He looked sincere, and for a split second, I saw the man I’d loved. But it wasn’t enough anymore. Not when I’d seen where his loyalty truly lay.

I avoided his gaze and reminded him, "Sign the paper, and we’ll go our separate ways."

I kept my voice cool, refusing to let him see the cracks forming underneath. There was no going back now.

He is the second male lead, and his feelings run deep.

He’d always be the hero of someone else’s story—never mine. I finally accepted that truth.

But I know very well: the one he loves so deeply is not me.

It stung, but there was a kind of relief in admitting it at last.