Chapter three
853 Words
The house smelled of rosemary and slow-cooked lamb. Jane moved through the kitchen with quiet precision, her hands trembling slightly as she lit the candles one by one. The table gleamed under the soft golden light,white plates, polished silverware, the same centerpiece she’d used on their first anniversary. She had worn the same navy silk dress, too, because Francis once said it brought out her eyes.
That was three years ago.
Now, the clock on the wall ticked louder than her heartbeat.
It was almost ten.
She checked her phone for the fifth time that hour. No messages. No calls. No sign of the man she had spent nearly a decade trying to understand. Still, she held on to that thin thread of hope that maybe,just maybe,he would walk through the door, smile faintly, and say, “You waited for me.”
The sound of rain began to fall softly against the windows. Her reflection in the glass looked ghostlike,lonely and tired. She forced a smile anyway, rearranging the bouquet on the table, trying to make the room look perfect.
It was always about perfection.
When the clock struck eleven, she finally sat down, her back straight, eyes fixed on the door. She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t even drink the wine she’d opened two hours ago. The silence pressed against her like a weight.
Then,finally,the familiar hum of an engine outside.
Jane’s heart lifted. She rushed to the mirror by the hallway, touched up her lipstick, and fixed a loose strand of hair. For a second, she felt like a wife again,someone who mattered.
The door opened.
Francis stepped in, tall and immaculate in his black suit, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and cold air. He didn’t look at her right away. His expression was unreadable, the same calm mask he always wore when he wanted to hide something.
“You’re late,” she said softly, trying to sound calm. “I waited..”
“I had a meeting,” he cut in, his tone flat, as he shrugged off his coat. “It ran long.”
Jane blinked. “It’s our anniversary, Francis.”
“I know,” he said. But his eyes didn’t show even a flicker of guilt or warmth.
He moved to the counter, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against it. “We need to talk.”
Her pulse stilled. The words sounded too sharp, too final. “Talk about what?”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a brown envelope. He placed it on the table, next to the untouched plates of food. “This.”
Jane stared at it, her throat tightening. “What is that?”
“Divorce papers.”
For a moment, everything inside her froze. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. The rain outside seemed to fade into a distant hum.
“I think this is what’s best for both of us,” he said, his tone too calm for what he was doing. “You deserve… something different.”
Her voice cracked. “Different? Or less?”
“Jane..” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ve been living like strangers for months. You know that.”
She shook her head, tears welling. “So that’s it? After everything we’ve been through,you couldn’t even wait until tomorrow?”
He looked away. “There’s no good day for this.”
Her chest ached, every word cutting deeper. “Did I do something wrong? Tell me, Francis. Was it me? Was I too much? Too quiet? Not enough?”
“It’s not about you,” he said flatly. “It’s about us. We’re done pretending.”
Pretending. The word sliced through her like glass.
Her trembling fingers brushed the envelope. She wanted to tear it apart, to scream, to ask him who he really was after all these years. But all that came out was a whisper.
“Did you ever love me?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the floor, the silence between them stretching too long, too cruel.
When he finally looked up, his eyes were colder than she’d ever seen them.
“You’ll thank me later,” he said quietly.
Then he walked past her, up the stairs, leaving her standing in the flickering candlelight, surrounded by the dinner she’d spent all day preparing.
Jane stood there for what felt like hours. The candles burned down to wax. The food grew cold. She didn’t cry—not yet. She simply sat back down at the table and stared at the empty chair across from her.
She didn’t notice the tears until one fell onto the divorce papers.
- Writer
