Thirteen Years of Marriage, Yet You Still Cheated

When Coleen lifted her head, she saw Bruce standing behind Emily, cold and impassive as he watched her face the agony of her father's death.

"Ten thousand," Emily said softly, her tone smooth and deliberate. "Bruce said it's hush money. From now on, the two of you owe each other nothing."

Ten thousand...

That was the same amount Coleen had scraped together years ago after her parents cut her off completely. Every last cent of her savings—she'd given it to Bruce without hesitation, to help him start his company.

Money loses value, but people change faster.

The Sandoval Corporation had since grown into a powerhouse. In today's Chicago, ten thousand dollars couldn't even buy a closet-sized room.

Emily's tone dripped with mock sympathy. She was savoring her triumph, wielding her new status like a blade. Pitying Coleen—this was the most elegant form of ridicule she could offer.

Coleen gave a faint, bitter laugh. Just as her fingers brushed the edge of the divorce papers, Emily curled her lips into a smile and deliberately let the folder slip from her hand, scattering the papers across the floor.

"Oh—sorry, Miss Vega," she drawled. "Guess I didn't hold it firmly."

Bruce frowned and took a step forward immediately. "Did it hit your hand just now? Let me see."

Coleen froze, then slowly bent down to pick up the papers. She said nothing.

Later, she carried her father's urn back to the apartment they used to share.

In just one day, her belongings had been cleared out and dumped at the door like trash.

The paintings she chose, the coffee table she designed, the pillows she handpicked—everything she'd carefully arranged when they first bought this place together had either been replaced or destroyed.

She stepped over the pile of discarded things and reached for the door handle.

Beep, beep—

The sound of a failed fingerprint scan broke the silence.

Her hand froze midair as the lock flashed red.

A moment later, the door opened from the inside. A new housekeeper peered out, suspicious and impatient.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the owner's... ex-wife. Just came to see if I left anything behind."

Recognition dawned in the woman's eyes, followed by open mockery.

"Oh, so you're that ex-wife—the one who couldn't have children. You do look a bit old for him, don't you? No wonder he left. Anyway, your junk is over there."

After that, she slammed the door shut.

Coleen stood there for a long time, the sound of the wind faintly rattling the boxes at her feet.

Then she let out a quiet, almost amused laugh.

She was about to call someone to haul the trash away when her foot nudged something. She froze upon seeing the shattered wind chime.

She remembered that night years ago, when they had just bought the apartment. Money was tight, but love was warm.

Coleen couldn't sleep, haunted by dreams of a future where Bruce became successful and drifted away. So he had gone to the beach after work, collecting shells to make her a wind chime. He'd wake up early to make her porridge, call her every night to say goodnight, and swear again and again— "I'll give you a better life."

And he did.

Bruce gave her more properties, more money. But also more late nights, more absences, and eventually, someone else's perfume lingering on the sheets where his warmth used to be.

Maybe the wind chimes, like his promises, belonged to a time that would never return.

Coleen's fingers went slack. She didn't look back at the boxes, the memories, or the ghosts of what used to be home.

With nothing left to hold on to, she turned and walked away.