I don't remember getting home.

The doorman looked at my face — torn clothes, bandages on my cheek — and didn't believe I was Sera Hart. He called Vito.

When I heard his voice, I snatched the phone and threw it against the wall.

I walked away with nothing. No wallet. No phone. Just the clothes on my back.

I had spent every dollar on a one-way ticket to Tripoli. Half a million. Because someone told me Vito was trapped there, that he'd been caught in a firefight.

I didn't think. I just went.

My phone buzzed. My mother.

"I just heard you went to Tripoli. Dear God. Are you both okay?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "We're fine, Mom."

"Thank God. You're barely three months pregnant. How could you take such a risk?"

I hung up. My hand drifted to my belly.

Vito didn't know. He'd left for "business" the day I found out.

I went to that war zone thinking — if we die, we die together. The three of us.

Now the pain came in waves.

A pair of arms wrapped around me. The familiar smell of tobacco.

Vito.

"Where have you been? What happened to you?"

His eyes were full of concern. As if he hadn't ignored me in that elevator.

I forced a smile. "Fell down once. Then again when I tried to get up."

Like this marriage. Every time I trusted him, I fell again.

"Must have been expensive to fly back on short notice."

He flinched. Then lifted me like I weighed nothing. "Worth it. My wife was waiting."

He knelt and started cleaning my wounds. His brows furrowed.

"I'm sorry, Sera. I shouldn't have left you alone."

His phone rang. He stepped away, answered, and came back with a guilty look.

"I have to go out. Wait for me."

I said nothing. Watched him put on his coat.

How many nights had I sat by the door, waiting? How many meals reheated?

The tightness in my chest snapped.

I stood and pushed him.

"Go. And don't come back."

He tried to kiss me. I turned my head.

He sighed. "I'll make it up to you tonight."

Then he was gone.

I collapsed onto the bed from exhaustion. But the nightmares came. Bombs. Fire. Screaming.

I woke up staring at our wedding photo on the wall.

After the first affair, Rosa had pressed her wet palms against that same photo, leaving four greasy prints. I smashed everything in the house.

Vito got on his knees. Said our second wedding was a rebirth. Begged me to keep the picture.

Those vows echoed in my ears. I still didn't understand.

Why hurt me again?

I grabbed my phone and searched for Rosa's social media.

She was an "influencer" now. Never showed her face. Just videos of her holding a man's hand.

I clicked through them all.

That hand — long fingers, a thin scar on the pinky.

I knew that scar.

Vito got it when we were eighteen. A thug tried to grab me. Vito stepped in and took a broken bottle to his hand.

"It's okay," he'd said, wincing. "Even if I'm scarred, you're stuck with me."

I found the contact number in Rosa's bio.

I called.

A cold voice answered. "Who is this?"

My blood went cold.

Vito had a memory like a steel trap. He could recite case files from ten years ago. But he didn't recognize his own wife's number.

"It's me," I said. "I'm looking for Rosa."

"She's in the shower."

He didn't even register my voice. Flat. Dismissive. Like I was a telemarketer.

Through the receiver, I heard water running. Then Rosa's voice, sweet and lazy.

"Baby, can you bring me a towel?"

The phone was set down. Footsteps walked away and came back.

"Here."

"You dry me off…" A playful whine.

"I have to leave early tonight."

"What, are you impotent now?"

He laughed, low. "You know damn well I'm not."

Rosa giggled, then gasped like she'd fallen onto a bed.

I tried to hang up. My fingers wouldn't press the button.

Thirty minutes later, she posted a new video.

A pair of large hands massaged her calves. Thumbs circling, moving up from her ankle.

The comments exploded. "Teach us your ways! How do you get a man like that to serve you?"

She replied: "True love is natural. When a man loves you, he gives everything."

Someone wrote: "No face? Probably a mistress."

Rosa posted a voice reply.

I pressed play.

Vito's voice came through the speaker. Low. Clear. Each word deliberate.

"She's not what you think. There's more to it than you know."

I pressed my lips together.

Closed the video.

Dialed again.

"Divorce."

A pause. Two seconds of static. Then: "What? I'll be home soon."

"No need. We'll use the same terms as last time."

His voice dropped. I heard a bedspring squeak as he sat up.

"I'm handling something important. I'm coming back."

In the background, a woman's muffled murmur.

I laughed and tears spilled over. "Stay busy."

He lowered his voice, strained. "We agreed. No matter how angry, we don't say that word."

On the other end, something shifted. Rosa whimpered and went quiet.

I hung up.

My hands shook as I pulled out the folded paper. The edges were curled.

His vow. Never betray.

Not enough to sign, he'd said. He bit his finger and pressed a bloody print next to his name.

"The pain helps me remember."

I opened my laptop and sent him the divorce agreement.

My phone rang within seconds. His voice was tight with anger.

"Sera, calm down. I know I've been neglecting you because I've been busy with work, but I'll do anything to make you stop mentioning divorce. I'll be home soon."

A tear fell and hit the screen.

"I only want a divorce and to leave you forever.""