Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

The door to Room 304 flew open with enough force to bang against the wall.

Jorden didn't jump. He didn't even look up from the notebook he had requested from the nurse. He was sketching a diagram-a complex schematic for a high-efficiency battery cell that had popped into his head ten minutes ago.

Catarina stood in the doorway. She was a mess. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, her silver dress was wrinkled, and her eyes were wild.

"You're alive," she accused. It sounded more like an insult than a relief.

Jorden finished the curve of a cathode before looking up. His face was pale, the bruising around his eye stark against his skin. He looked fragile, physically broken, but his eyes were steady.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

For three years, she had been the sun in his solar system. Every mood, every whim, every glance of hers had dictated his orbit.

Now? She was just a woman in a wrinkled dress standing in a hospital doorway.

"Disappointed?" Jorden asked. His voice was raspy but calm.

Catarina stomped into the room. "Don't you dare. Do you have any idea what you put me through tonight? I was calling hospitals! I was calling the police!"

"You were singing karaoke," Jorden corrected. He pointed the pen at his phone on the table. "I saw the video. You were a little flat on the bridge, by the way."

Catarina's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He criticized her singing? Jorden? The man who used to applaud when she sneezed?

"I... I was trying to cover for you!" she sputtered. "People were asking where you were! I had to pretend everything was fine!"

"And now you don't have to pretend," Jorden said. He closed the notebook. "I'm fine. You're fine. Atticus is fine. Go back to the party."

Catarina walked to the side of the bed. She saw the bandages on his chest. The bruising on his face. The cast on his left arm.

The anger deflated slightly, replaced by that uncomfortable guilt she hated.

"Why didn't you call me?" she asked, her voice softer, but still demanding. "When you crashed. Why didn't you call me?"

"I called Chloe," Jorden said. "She made it very clear that your priority was the dress."

"I didn't know you were hurt! Chloe didn't tell me!"

"Because you didn't ask," Jorden said simply. "You asked about the dress. Atticus asked about the vest."

Catarina gripped the bed rail. Her knuckles were white. "That's not fair. You're twisting things."

"Am I?" Jorden looked at her. His eyes were like X-rays. "Catarina, look at me. Look at the monitor. I almost died tonight. My heart stopped in the ambulance for ten seconds."

Catarina gasped. She hadn't known that.

"And when I woke up," Jorden continued, "I realized something. If I had died, your biggest problem would have been finding a plus-one for the next gala."

"That is not true!" Catarina cried. Tears pricked her eyes. "I love you, Jorden! How can you say that?"

"You love having a fan," Jorden said. "You love having a servant. You don't love me. You don't even know me."

"I'm your wife!"

"For now," Jorden said.

The words hung in the air. Heavy. Suffocating.

"What does that mean?" Catarina whispered.

"It means," Jorden said, leaning back against the pillows and letting out a slow, controlled breath to manage the spike of pain in his ribs, "that I'm tired, Ms. Evans. I'm tired of the chase. I'm tired of the apology tour. I'm done."

"You're... you're breaking up with me? In a hospital bed?"

"I'm setting you free," Jorden said. "You want Atticus. Go have him. He's all yours. No more guilt. No more hiding. I'm removing myself from the equation."

Catarina stared at him. This was the moment she should feel relieved. She had told her friends a thousand times that she felt "trapped" with Jorden. That she wished he would just leave so she could be with her soulmate.

But now that he was saying it? Now that he was looking at her with that cold, indifferent stare?

She felt panic. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her.

"You're in shock," she said quickly. "It's the concussion. You're talking crazy."

"Maybe," Jorden said. He picked up his pen again. "But I've never thought more clearly in my life."

He opened the notebook and started drawing again.

"Go home, Catarina. You look exhausted. And your eyeliner is smudged."

Catarina reached up and touched her face. She looked at her finger. A streak of black.

She felt small. She felt ugly.

"I'm not leaving," she said petulantly. She sat down in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the bed. "I'm staying right here until you come to your senses."

Jorden didn't look up. "Suit yourself. But don't expect me to entertain you."

He continued to sketch. The scratching of the pen against the paper was the only sound in the room.

Catarina sat there, arms crossed, watching him. She waited for him to break. She waited for him to look at her and smile.

He didn't.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

Jorden was lost in his world of equations and diagrams. He had forgotten she was there.

For the first time in their marriage, Catarina Evans was invisible.