The Divorce is Ready, My Ex-Husband

“I want to file for divorce,” I said firmly, clutching my phone like a lifeline. “Immediately.”

A pause on the other end. “Mrs. Moore… under your marital contract, both parties—especially the families—must be involved. Your in-laws must approve.”

“I don’t care.” My voice didn’t waver. “Just draft the papers and send them to me. Whether they sign or not, I’ll find a way.”

And with that, I hung up.

The silence in the hallway felt heavier after that. I hadn’t even made it to the gates of our home before I already felt like a stranger in it.

The moment I stepped inside, I sensed something had changed. No one greeted me. No one asked how I was. The air was colder, stiffer. My room, the one that had always felt like mine even when nothing else did, had been stripped. The curtains were different. The bedcovers replaced. My dresser was filled with someone else’s things.

Alynna’s. Panic rising in my chest, I opened the cabinet only to find my belongings boxed up and shoved into a corner. Dusty, neglected. As if I had already been erased.

I hurried outside, searching for someone—anything familiar—and stopped short when I saw the maid near the garden, standing beside a small flame. A pile of items fed the fire: old jewelry boxes, yellowed letters, delicate fabrics. Things that looked painfully familiar.

I ran to her. “What is this? What are you burning?”

She turned with a hesitant look. “Miss Alynna said to dispose of the old things from storage… These were marked as ‘unnecessary.’”

My stomach turned. “These belonged to my mother!”

Just then, Alynna appeared behind me, holding another box in her hands. “Oh good, you’re here. I was just about to tell them to burn this one too. Dad said we’re clearing out old junk for the renovations. Sentimental clutter just slows things down.”

I stepped forward, my hands trembling. “That’s not clutter. Those are my mother’s memories. You don’t get to decide what stays.”

Alynna gave me a flat smile. “She’s dead, Chloe. She’s not coming back. And let’s be honest—you were the reason she died, weren’t you?”

The sting of her words landed harder than the slap I gave her.

She gasped theatrically. “Oh God—did you just hit me?”

Clinton appeared then, footsteps sharp, face unreadable. “What’s going on?”

“She slapped me,” Alynna sniffled. “I was just trying to help. Chloe got upset about some old things. I didn’t mean to upset her…”

Clinton turned to me. “What’s your problem? She’s trying to help and you lash out like this?”

“They were my mother’s,” I said, barely able to raise my voice. “And she’s throwing them away like they mean nothing.”

“So what?” he snapped. “She’s gone. We’re moving forward.”

And there it was. The truth, out loud. He had already left me in his heart. Maybe he never truly stayed.

I couldn’t even argue. I was too tired to. Too empty.

But then the memories came rushing in—how it all started. Six years ago. Back when Alynna had left the country for school and left Clinton heartbroken. I had been there, a silent shadow, a friend, someone who offered him comfort when he was drinking and miserable. And in a single, foolish night… everything changed.

He proposed months later, saying he wanted something real. I believed him.

And then Alynna came back. And suddenly I wasn’t enough anymore.

Their affair started slowly—subtle glances, inside jokes. And then it wasn’t hidden at all. She told me herself, over wine one afternoon: “He was mine first. He’ll always be mine. You were just a substitute until I came back.”

I should’ve left then. But I stayed. For the baby. For a love that clearly didn’t exist.

“You’ve caused enough trouble,” my father’s voice boomed from the patio. “After everything, now you’re fighting with Alynna too? Haven’t you done enough?”

His words hit me like another slap. “You’re grounded. Go to your room and stay there. Don’t come out until you’ve learned your place.”

And so I was locked inside.

The hours passed slowly, the silence louder than ever. Laughter echoed from downstairs—the three of them living, celebrating, pretending I never existed.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

A day later, the door creaked open. Alynna stepped in, holding a tray of food. Her smile was cold and victorious.

“Eat up, sister. You must be starving. It’s been a day. You know your place now, right?”

I glared at her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

She tilted her head. “Suit yourself. But Clinton did say you looked pale. Wouldn’t want to worry anyone.”

I hesitated, my stomach churning. But hunger won over suspicion.

Minutes after I took a bite, I started to sweat. My throat closed. My skin began to itch. Then I knew.

Seafood. I was allergic.

I stumbled to the bathroom, clutching the wall, calling for help. No one answered.

I faintly heard Clinton’s voice from the hall. “What’s going on?”

“She didn’t like the food,” Alynna replied calmly. “She was screaming for no reason.”

“What? An ungrateful bitch! You already cook for her and she’d say that? Let’s just leave her and have fun outside.”

The last thing I heard was their voices laughing before everything went black.