"Alma, where are you?"

"Is everything okay with your mom? Call me back."

"I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have said those things. Please don't scare me like this."

I deleted every message without a flicker of expression, then dialed a number.

"Hello, Attorney Dickerson? This is Alma Fox. I'd like to consult you about a divorce."

Antony Dickerson had been my senior in college and was now one of the most respected matrimonial lawyers in the city.

After I finished explaining the situation, he was quiet for a moment. "Alma, don't worry. Leave this to me. I'll draft the divorce agreement as soon as possible, and when it comes to asset division, I'll fight to protect your interests."

During our marriage, Barnaby's company had grown exponentially—but I wasn't listed as a legal representative. I had no assets in my name. Even the house we lived in was registered under his parents. The only thing I could produce was a single transfer record: five hundred thousand dollars, wired to his account.

That money had come from my parents selling our old family home so I could buy a new place after the wedding. Back then, Barnaby had convinced me to invest it in his company instead. Once we go public, he'd promised, I'll give you ten times the return.

Looking back now, it was laughable.

The first thing I did after settling in was look for work.

I dug out the drawing board and résumé I'd locked away for five years and sent applications to several design firms.

Five years away from my field had left me rusty. Software had evolved; techniques had changed. I threw myself into studying around the clock, cramming to make up for everything I'd missed.

I shut myself inside that tiny rented room like a sponge, absorbing everything I could. There was no time for grief. No time to think about Barnaby.

When I finally received an interview notice from my first potential employer, he found me.

He was standing downstairs from my building. His eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard—nothing like the confident man he used to be.

The moment he saw me, he strode forward and seized my wrist. His grip was so tight it felt like he might crush the bone.

"Alma, this is how you take care of your mother? Hiding out here alone?" His voice was hoarse, edged with accusation.

I met his gaze coldly and tried to pull free. "Let go."

"Come home with me." He didn't release me. If anything, his grip tightened. "Whatever's going on, we'll talk about it at home."

"Barnaby, I don't have a home anymore." I stated it like the simple fact it was.

He froze, as if he didn't understand.

"What do you mean, you don't have a home?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." I looked him in the eye, enunciating every word with perfect clarity. "My mother is dead. She died on New Year's Eve. While you were telling me to get lost. While you were having your holiday dinner with Elise and her family."

The color drained from Barnaby's face.

His grip on my wrist went slack. He stared at me in disbelief, his lips moving, but no sound came out.

"That's impossible..." he murmured. "You never... you never told me..."

"I did." I cut him off, my voice flat and even. "I called you. I begged you to transfer the money to save her. You said I was putting on an act." I paused, letting each word land. "Barnaby, you snuffed out her last chance at survival with your own hands."

I stepped around him and kept walking.

"Alma!" He caught up from behind and grabbed me again. "I'm sorry—I didn't know. I really didn't know it was this serious! I thought... I thought you just wanted me to come back..."

He stumbled over his words, panic and fear bleeding through his voice.

I stopped. Turned. Looked at him with nothing but contempt.

"You thought what? That I'm still the same Alma who'd cry the moment you raised your voice? Who'd spiral into paranoia every time you didn't come home?"

"Barnaby, have you ever considered that the boy who cried wolf only fools children?"

"I'm done playing your games."

I wrenched my hand free and flagged down a cab. As I slid into the backseat, I caught one last glimpse of him—frozen on the curb, his face a mask of shock and anguish.

I didn't look back.

On the way to my interview, an unfamiliar calm settled over me. Seeing him suffer brought no satisfaction, only a hollow sense of absurdity.

If you knew it would end like this, why start at all?

The interview went smoothly. Five years out of the workforce hadn't dulled my skills. When they asked me to sketch a few design concepts on the spot, my hand moved with a certainty I'd forgotten I possessed. The hiring manager's eyebrows lifted higher with each stroke of my pencil.

They offered me the position before I left the building.

My first day at work, I threw myself into it completely. New office, new colleagues, new beginning—it felt like stepping into someone else's life. Someone I used to be.

Turns out, leaving Barnaby James hadn't shattered my world. If anything, it had given me back the version of myself I'd lost.

He didn't show up again.

But the messages came daily—a relentless flood. At first, apologies and pleas for forgiveness. Then, memories dredged up like weapons: Remember our first anniversary? Remember how you laughed that night? He wrote that he missed me so much he was losing his mind.

He said he'd gone to my hometown. Stood before my mother's grave. Only then did he realize how monumentally he'd failed me.

He said he'd never forgive himself.

I didn't reply to a single one.

A heart that's stopped beating can't be resuscitated.

Antony called with an update. He'd sent the divorce papers and legal notice to Barnaby, but Barnaby refused to accept delivery. Refused to sign. Refused to let me go.

"Alma, if he won't cooperate, we'll have to take this to court." Antony's voice was steady, reassuring. "But don't worry. You have documented evidence of his infidelity during the marriage, plus the five-million-dollar debt. This case is airtight."

"Whatever you think is best," I said. "I trust you."

I poured everything into my work. Within weeks, I'd found my footing at the company. One of my design proposals caught the eye of a major client, and we landed a contract worth tens of millions.

At the celebration dinner, the boss praised me in front of everyone and handed me a thick red envelope stuffed with bonus cash. Colleagues lined up to toast me, and I accepted every glass, letting the warmth of the alcohol blur the edges of the evening.

After the party ended, I walked home alone. The night breeze was cool against my flushed cheeks, but my mind was razor-sharp.

I pulled out my phone and checked my bank balance. Six figures. Just from this one bonus.

For the first time in years, I felt it—the solid, grounding sensation of holding my own life in my hands.

I was about to pocket my phone when it rang.

Elise Pruitt.

I stared at the name, surprised. But curiosity won, and I answered.

"Alma, can't you just leave Barnaby alone?" Her voice came through thick with tears, trembling with theatrical grief, as if she were the one who'd been wronged.

I frowned. "Are you sure you dialed the right number?"

"Don't play dumb!" she shrieked. "Barnaby hasn't slept in days because of you! He's locked himself in his study, drinking himself into oblivion. No one can get through to him! The company's falling apart! What more do you want? Are you trying to drive him to his grave?"

I laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound.

"Miss Pruitt, you seem to have forgotten something. I'm Barnaby James's legal wife. You're just the 'moonlight' he pines for. What right do you have to interrogate me?"

Silence. I'd knocked the wind out of her.

"Furthermore," I continued, my voice dropping to ice, "whether Barnaby lives or dies is no longer my concern. You're the one who called him away that night. If he's spiraling now, that's your responsibility to handle—not mine. I'm the victim here."

"I—I had an emergency that night!" She scrambled to defend herself. "My ex-husband had me cornered in my apartment. He was going to hit me. I had no choice but to call Barnaby for help!"

"So your emergency matters, but my mother's life doesn't?"

My voice turned to ice. "Elise, drop the innocent victim act. It doesn't work on me."

"I didn't—"

"Before you called him that night," I cut her off, a sudden memory surfacing, "did you send my mother a text?"

I'd discovered it by accident, going through Mom's belongings after she died.

Her old flip phone held a message from an unknown number, timestamped exactly one hour before her heart attack.

The text was simple. Just a photo.

Elise leaning against Barnaby's shoulder, their pose intimate, unmistakable. The background was our living room.

Silence from the other end of the line.