Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

The rain had not stopped. It hammered against the roof of the black Mercedes sedan as it wove through the Manhattan traffic.

Catarina sat in the back seat, her arms crossed over her chest. The city lights blurred past, streaks of neon reflecting in her eyes.

She checked her phone again.

Still nothing.

She opened her text history with Jorden.

Yesterday, 4:00 PM.

Cat: Pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow. Don't forget.

Jorden: On it, Cat. <3 Will have it ready for you.

That heart emoji. It looked pathetic now. A symbol of his weakness.

"He's playing games," she said aloud.

The driver, a stoic man named Stevens who had worked for the Evans family for a decade, glanced in the rearview mirror but said nothing.

"He wants me to worry," she continued, convincing herself. "He thinks if he acts tough, I'll respect him. It's some stupid advice he read in a men's magazine."

She pulled up her contacts and dialed Mr. Henderson, the family lawyer.

"Ms. Evans?" Henderson's voice was groggy. It was late.

"Henderson," Catarina said, her voice clipped. "If Jorden violates the 'public image' clause of the prenup, what are the penalties?"

"Um," Henderson shuffled some papers on the other end. "Well, usually it results in a reduction of his monthly allowance. Or a suspension of discretionary funds."

"Cut it," Catarina said. "Cut it all. Freeze his credit cards. Tonight."

"Ms. Evans, that seems extreme. If he's in an emergency-"

"He's not in an emergency. He's throwing a tantrum. Cut the funds. I want him to have to ask me for money to buy a coffee tomorrow morning."

"Understood. I'll initiate the freeze."

Catarina hung up. She felt a surge of satisfaction. This was her language. Power. Money. Control. Jorden lived in her world, on her dime. If he wanted to bite the hand that fed him, he would starve.

The car pulled into the underground garage of the Tribeca penthouse building.

"Wait here, Stevens," she said as she got out. "I might need you to take me back out if he's being difficult."

She took the private elevator up to the penthouse.

As the numbers climbed-10, 20, 30-she composed her face. She practiced her look of disdain. She expected to find Jorden in the living room, perhaps nursing a drink, looking sullen. Or maybe pacing, waiting to beg for forgiveness.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

Darkness.

The penthouse was pitch black.

Catarina stepped out, her heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered on, illuminating a pristine, empty space.

"Jorden?" she called out.

Her voice echoed.

She walked into the living room. It was cold. Usually, Jorden kept the thermostat at a cozy 72 degrees because she got cold easily. Now, it felt like a tomb.

She looked at the entryway. Jorden's house slippers, which were always perfectly aligned by the door, were missing.

She walked to the kitchen. The counter was spotless. No smell of dinner keeping warm in the oven. No note.

A strange sensation clawed at her throat. Panic? No, it couldn't be panic.

She walked to the bedroom. Empty. The bed was made, perfectly tight, the way the maid left it this morning.

He wasn't here.

He hadn't come home.

Catarina stood in the middle of the master bedroom, clutching her expensive bag. For the first time in three years, she was alone in this massive apartment.

She looked at the nightstand on his side of the bed.

His reading glasses were there. His book-some biography of a chef-was there.

But he wasn't.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. The silence was deafening. It pressed against her ears.

"Where are you?" she whispered.

She had cut off his money. She had prepared her speech. She was ready to crush his rebellion.

But you can't crush someone who isn't there.

She realized then that she didn't know where he went when he wasn't with her. Did he have friends? She didn't know. Did he have a favorite bar? She didn't know.

She knew nothing about the man she had lived with for three years, other than how he served her.

And now that the service had stopped, she felt naked.

She grabbed her phone and dialed the one number she knew would have answers, even if she hated asking.

She dialed the police.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"It's not... I need to check on a car accident," Catarina said, her voice trembling slightly. "My husband. Jorden Nash. On I-95."

"One moment."

The hold music was cheerful. It mocked her.

"Ma'am?" the dispatcher came back. "Yes, we have a report of a collision involving a vehicle registered to a Jorden Nash. The report indicates a rollover with entrapment. The driver was extricated and transported to New York-Presbyterian Hospital."

"Extricated?" Catarina's hand flew to her mouth. That meant the Jaws of Life. That meant crushed metal.

"Is he... is he okay?"

"I can't release medical details over the line, ma'am. You'll need to contact the hospital directly."

The phone slipped from Catarina's fingers. It bounced on the plush carpet.

He wasn't sulking. He wasn't playing games.

He had been crushed inside that car.

And she had just frozen his credit cards.