"Serena! What are you even talking about? I don't understand!"

His voice kept climbing with every word.

"I'm sick! I can't control him! You know that! The doctor said so -- it's a disorder!"

"How can you blame me for everything he does?! I love you, Serena!"

I didn't want to look anymore. Didn't want to listen.

I bent down and grabbed the handle of my suitcase.

I needed to leave. Right now.

"Serena! Don't go! I shouldn't have let him take over! I shouldn't have gotten sick!"

When he saw me heading for the door, he threw himself forward and clung to my legs, dropping to his knees on the floor.

"Don't leave. I'm begging you. I'll die without you."

I tried to pull my legs free, but his grip was iron.

In the middle of our tug-of-war, the doorbell rang.

We both froze.

Ethan's hands loosened instinctively.

Before he could grab me again, I pulled free and stepped back.

The doorbell kept ringing, joined by a young woman's voice.

"Ethan Westbrook? Open up! I know you're home!"

Vivian Lane.

The new dance instructor.

Ethan scrambled to his feet, eyes darting between me and the door.

Outside, Vivian was losing patience. She started pounding.

"Ethan! Open the door! Axel said he was taking me to look at cars today!"

Ethan braced himself and hurried to the door.

But he didn't open it. Instead, he pressed close to the other side, voice low, urgent, a warning threaded through every word.

"Vivian! What are you doing here? Leave! Now's not a good time!"

"What's not a good time? Axel said I could come over whenever I wanted!"

"You won't open up? Fine. I'll let myself in."

Then came the sound of a key sliding into the lock.

The door swung open.

Vivian stood there in a figure-hugging dress, makeup flawless, her young, pretty face bright with a confident smile.

The moment she spotted the suitcase at my feet, that smile curdled into something sharp and taunting.

"Oh, look who it is." She looked me up and down, lips curling. "Ethan Westbrook's frumpy little wife."

Her gaze slid to Ethan, whose face had gone rigid. She let out a teasing laugh.

"What's the drama here? Axel told me he's been dying for you to pack your bags. Said he was sick of your moping."

Ethan lurched forward, trying to get between us, his voice tight with anger.

"Vivian! Shut up! I'm Ethan right now! Not Axel! Get out!"

"I don't care if you're Ethan or Axel!" Vivian shoved past him, strode to the coffee table, and slapped a piece of paper down on the glass surface.

"Read it." She tilted her chin up, looking like the cat that got the cream.

"I'm pregnant. It's Axel's. And he said he'd step up."

She fixed her eyes on me, drawing out every word like she'd already won.

Ethan waved his hands frantically, words tripping over each other.

"Serena, no -- listen to me -- it was Axel! He did this!"

"I had no idea! I can't control him! You're the one I love!"

There it was again.

Every time Axel wrecked something, Ethan would weep and apologize and shove all the blame onto his imaginary alter ego.

And I was always the one expected to forgive, to endure, to clean up the wreckage -- Ethan's eternal savior.

I walked over, leaned down, and picked up the test results.

"Pregnant? Congratulations."

"You'd better pray this baby really is Ethan Westbrook's."

I set the paper back on the table.

"After all, Ethan has a diagnosed mental illness."

"Legally speaking, a patient with a documented psychiatric condition -- the validity of his civil actions is very much up for debate."

"Even if you have this baby, good luck getting child support out of him."

Vivian stood there, stunned. She clearly hadn't expected this reaction from me. Hadn't expected these words.

"Enough!" Ethan roared, turning on Vivian. "Get out! Right now!"

Vivian flinched at the look on his face. She gave me one last poisonous look, then turned to Ethan, grabbed her bag, muttered "Psycho," and slammed the door behind her.

Ethan walked toward me, one slow step at a time.

"Serena." His voice was dangerously low.

"You really want to do this? Fine. You've got nerve."

"Divorce? Sure." He nodded.

"But listen carefully. You want out? We do it on my terms."

"The apartment is my premarital asset. Most of our savings -- I earned that money."

"You want a cut? Dream on. You won't see a single cent."

He stared straight into my eyes, spacing out every word:

"And your mother's medical bills -- you know exactly how much those cost every month."

"Cut off my money, and see how long she lasts. You want to play tough, Serena? Go ahead."

"Take your sick mother and go live on the streets."

He thought I'd shatter. That I'd cry. That I'd beg.

Just like every other time -- a little coldness, a little crisis manufactured in Axel's name, and I would fold. I would give in.

I would swallow every ounce of pain to hold that household together, to keep my mother's medical bills paid.

I lifted my chin, looked at his face, and smiled.

My smile clearly wasn't part of Ethan's script.

I didn't answer him right away. Instead, I turned and kept walking toward the door.

"Ethan," I said, my back to him.

"Do you know when you were the most convincing? In all these five years?"

I could feel his eyes on my back.

I didn't wait for his answer. I turned to face him and continued.

"It wasn't when you were on your knees, clinging to my legs, sobbing and begging me not to leave."

"And it wasn't those late nights when you'd hold me and whisper, 'Serena, you're all I have. Please don't give up on me.'"

"It was every time Axel had just showed up and was chasing his latest girl. And you -- Ethan Westbrook, the character -- could finally step offstage for a breather."

Ethan's brow furrowed deeper, his lips pressing thin as if searching for words.

I went on. "That's when I saw it. In your eyes, in every line of your face -- this look of pure relief at finally dropping the good-husband mask."

"The freedom to do whatever you wanted without guilt. To chase something new and exciting. And this smug little thrill of having fooled everyone -- you couldn't hide it no matter how hard you tried."

His body stiffened. Whether I'd struck a nerve, I couldn't say for certain.

"The way you looked at those women -- it was the look of a hunter. Amused. Predatory. Savoring every second."

I let out a quiet laugh.

"That was the real you."

I pointed to the divorce papers on the table.

"Sign them. While I still have a shred of old sentiment left -- the kind that saw through it all but chose not to say a word."

He stared at me, disbelief written across his face.

I didn't wait for him to speak. I turned and headed for the door.

"Oh. Almost forgot."

"If you insist on claiming you have a mental illness -- that you're a patient with dissociative identity disorder who can't control his own actions..."

I half-turned, catching his suddenly rigid posture in the corner of my eye.

"Then, as your legal wife, during divorce proceedings, I have every right -- and obligation -- to petition the court for a mandatory psychiatric evaluation."

"To determine whether you truly suffer from a legally recognized mental illness, whether you require compulsory treatment, and whether the court should appoint a legal guardian for you."

"After all, this concerns your legal competency. And your future. So, Ethan -- do you want to test that?"

I didn't linger. I turned the handle and walked out.

By the time I reached the front gate of the complex, my phone buzzed with a message from Ethan.

A photo.

His signature on the divorce papers.