Beyond Divorce: He Is Not The Same

Elizabeth stared at the signature. The ink was still wet, glistening under the desk lamp. He hadn't even looked at the alimony figures. He hadn't asked about the beach house, the cars, the stocks.

"You didn't read it," she said, her voice sounding thin in the large room.

"I don't need to," Chris said. He turned away from the desk and walked toward the small guest closet where the "old" Chris kept his meager belongings.

"You're walking away with nothing?" Elizabeth asked, incredulity sharpening her tone. "You have no job. Your family disowned you. You'll be on the street in a week."

Chris pulled out a battered duffel bag. He started throwing clothes into it-jeans, t-shirts, a leather jacket. He ignored the designer suits she had bought him to make him look presentable at galas.

"I don't keep trash, Elizabeth," he said, zipping the bag shut. The sound was harsh, like a zipper on a body bag.

The insult landed like a slap. Elizabeth took a step toward him, her face flushing. "I bought you those suits. I gave you a life."

Chris swung the bag over his shoulder. He walked up to her, invading her personal space until she was pressed back against the bookshelf. He smelled of tobacco and something sharper, something metallic.

He reached out. His thumb brushed her lower lip. It was a gesture that used to make her melt, used to make her feel powerful because he was so desperate to touch her.

Now, his skin felt rough. His eyes were devoid of warmth.

Elizabeth froze, her breath hitching in her throat. Her body betrayed her, leaning imperceptibly into his touch, conditioned by three years of marriage.

"You're pathetic," she whispered, though the word lacked conviction. She was staring at his mouth, wondering why it looked so cruel.

Chris smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. He pulled his hand away and wiped his thumb on his jeans, as if he had touched something sticky.

"And you," Chris said softly, "are expensive."

He turned and walked out of the study.

Elizabeth stood there for a second, paralyzed by the sheer indignity of it. He wiped his hand. He wiped her off his skin like dirt.

"Get out!" she screamed, the rage finally breaking through the confusion. She grabbed a crystal paperweight from the desk and hurled it at the door, but he was already gone. It shattered against the frame, raining glass onto the carpet.

Chris walked down the grand staircase. Marcus, the elderly butler, was standing in the foyer, holding the front door open. His face was a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes gave him away. He looked at Chris with pity.

Chris stopped in front of him. He looked Marcus in the eye.

"Goodbye, Marcus," Chris said.

Marcus blinked. The pity vanished, replaced by a sudden, instinctual wariness. He had served powerful men his whole life. He knew what a predator looked like. And the man standing in front of him was not the broken boy who had walked up these stairs three years ago.

"Goodbye... sir," Marcus murmured, stepping back slightly.

Chris walked out the heavy oak doors and into the crisp morning air of the Hamptons. The gravel crunched loudly under his boots.

He didn't look back at the mansion. He didn't look at the manicured lawns or the fountain. He walked straight to the rusted sedan parked near the service gate-the only car in his name.

He threw the bag in the passenger seat and got in. The engine coughed, then roared to life with a rattle.

As he drove down the long, winding driveway, he checked the rearview mirror. He saw Elizabeth standing on the balcony, her silk robe fluttering in the wind. She looked small. Insignificant.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out the burner phone he had stashed days ago in the old Chris's memories. He dialed a number from a life he had left behind in another world, hoping the codes still worked in this one.

"Game on," he muttered, and floored the gas.