Married To My Ex-husband's Rival

CHAPTER 4 - The Divorce

POV: Isabella

I didn't jump that night.

"Thinking about jumping?" He asked and I stared at him. "No. Just needed to think, besides I can't I'm not the only one now" I mumbled placing my hands on my tummy.

"Does he know?" He asked following my gaze.

I shook my head and he nodded.

"Didn't think Leonard was as stupid and careless with his personal life as he was with business."

I didn't quite understand what he meant and before I could as, the man with the cigarette was gone, and the rain didn't cease. I just stood there until I couldn't feel the cold anymore, then resumed walking.

The one I found near the bus station wanted fifty dollars a night. The woman behind the counter didn't even try to mask her suspicion, but she handed me a key. The room smelled of bleach and stale cigarettes, but it felt like safety.

That was enough.

My throat burned from throwing up the first morning. I blamed the cheap sandwich I'd eaten, though I knew better. My body was exhausted; my mind, worse.

Once, I tried to call Leonardo. Straight to voicemail. The second time the call failed completely, so I didn't try anymore.

---

Gina called often.

“You can’t stay in a motel forever,” she’d say.

“I’m fine,” I’d answer.

“You always say that before you fall apart.”

Maybe she was right, but I didn't have the strength to argue.

Most of the businesses today exist and operate mainly to maximize profits.

A week later, I applied to work at a bridal shop. The Now Hiring sign in the window gave me hope.

The owner smiled politely as she read my résumé.

“You used to work at Russo Bridal?”

“Yes.”

Her smile disappeared. “We just filled the position.”

Of course they had.

Outside, my phone buzzed with a message from Vera.

I've heard that you and Leo have split. People are talking.

I deleted it without replying.

---

That evening, the motel manager knocked. “Delivery for you.”

It was a brown envelope with my name inscribed in neat black ink. My stomach turned even before I opened it.

Divorce papers.

The letter from the lawyer was short and cold: sign and return within forty-eight hours to finalize proceedings.

No call, no apology, just the end.

I sat on the bed and stared at my name beside his. It looked foreign, like it belonged to someone I used to know.

The shaking of my hands stopped; I signed.

Just one word — Isabella.

"---

Two days later, the courier returned for the envelope.

“Miss Russo?” he asked.

“Not anymore,” I whispered.

When it shut behind him, the silence felt like a press against my skin until I couldn’t breathe. I was living off crackers and vending-machine coffee; my money was almost gone. The manager had already hinted I needed to pay or leave.

So I packed what little I owned: two dresses, a charger, my last twenty dollars-and walked out.

The night air was cold, heavy with the smell of rain. I walked aimlessly until the streetlights gave way to neon signs. Music and laughter spilled from a small bar on the corner.

I hesitated at the door. The place looked warm, alive — everything I wasn’t.

But I went in anyway.

It wasn't crowded, just a few strangers nursing drinks, a bartender polishing glasses, a low hum of conversation. I slid onto a stool at the far end and ordered water because it was free.

Behind the bar, the mirror caught my reflection: pale, tired, and unrecognizable.

I almost laughed. This was what was left of Mrs. Russo.

“Rough night?” the bartender asked.

“Rough year,” I said. He nodded, poured me another glass of water, and left me alone. I sat there staring at the drops sliding down the side of the glass, wondering what came next. I had no plan, no home, and a child I hadn’t begun to think about.

That's when a man's reflection appeared in the mirror next to mine: dark suit, sharp eyes, calm carriage. He spoke in a low steady voice. “Still sitting in the dark, Mrs. Russo?” I turned slowly, my heart skipping. It was him, the man from the rain that night.