Without a word, she walked into the bathroom, chatting and laughing with Ryan as he dressed.
Something inside me snapped. Seven years of endurance shattered in a single moment.
I slid my wedding band off and tossed it into the trash with a decisive clank.
"Divorce." My tone was flat. "I'm done with a wife whose germaphobia is selective."
——
The laughter died. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
I turned to leave, hand on the doorknob, when the door swung open. A group of salespeople from a luxury boutique filed in, arms laden with bags.
"Mr. Weiss, good afternoon!" the lead associate chirped, oblivious. "Mrs. Weiss custom-ordered these shoes and suits for you personally. You're a lucky man—her devotion is the talk of our store."
"Indeed," another added, setting down a velvet box. "Mrs. Weiss was so particular. Insisted no one touch the items with bare hands. Said her husband dislikes others handling his belongings."
The irony tasted like ash.
I stared at the pile. In seven years, Mila had never bought me a gift. Not once. And the brand was flashy, gaudy—completely opposite to my taste.
These weren't for me. They never were.
On cue, Mila emerged from the bathroom, Ryan close behind.