“Before they come back from their honeymoon,” I said.
That was enough.
“I understand,” Ethan replied. “I’ll move everything forward.”
I hung up.
For a moment, I closed my eyes and let the air fill my lungs slowly.
Then I got back to work.
Because this wasn’t about revenge.
It was about correction.
The next morning, I didn’t go into the office.
I drove to the house.
Not to stay.
To end it.
When I walked through the front door, everything looked exactly the same.
Perfect.
Spotless.
Empty.
The kind of perfection that now felt… artificial.
Like a stage set after the actors had left.
I walked into the kitchen and ran my fingers along the marble countertop. I remembered dinners there. Conversations. Laughter. Promises whispered late at night when everything felt safe and certain.
And then, just as quickly, I remembered the photo.
And every single memory lost its weight.
I went upstairs.
Into the bedroom.
The closet door slid open smoothly.
Daniel’s clothes were still there—lined up neatly, untouched, as if he still belonged.
As if he still had a right.
I grabbed a suitcase.
Not mine.
His.
I packed quickly. Methodically.
Shirts, jackets, shoes—everything.
No hesitation.
No care.
No nostalgia.
Just removal.