The CEO Chasing his EX-Wife.

Chapter Four: When He Wasn’t There

Chapter4

Elena had never thought that someone’s absence could echo so loudly in a room.

It wasn’t the kind of sound that hits you like thunder—more like the hum of a refrigerator. You don’t notice it until everything else goes quiet, and then suddenly, it’s everywhere.

On the seventh day since Nicholas stopped showing up, Elena began to register small things: his name no longer flashing on the security gate system; no one in the kindergarten parents’ group forwarding that viral post—*Is the man kneeling in the rain your husband?*; and Mia no longer whispering before bed, “Mom, will Dad come see me as a ghost?”

She felt relief. And then, oddly, a hollow ache.

“You look good,” Sophia said during a visit to her livestream, handing her an iced Americano. “Like you just won a war nobody knew you were fighting.”

Elena took the cup, biting the straw, turning it between her teeth. “I wasn’t fighting. I just… stopped pretending I needed him.”

“But you used to pretend well.” Sophia crouched to tickle Mia’s side. “Remember your wedding day? He was shaking when he put the ring on your finger. And when you said ‘I do’—God, it was so sweet half the women in the room wanted to divorce and remarry on the spot.”

Elena didn’t smile. What she remembered clearer was that night, drunk in the bathroom stall, him staring at his reflection, whispering: *I don’t deserve her.*

She’d heard it. But she didn’t open the door.

Now, she knew he might be somewhere, watching her livestream reruns alone in a café. But she wouldn’t cut the feed either.

“Mia, go help Mommy bring in the laundry from the balcony,” Elena said.

The girl bounced off.

Sophia lowered her voice. “He came to see me yesterday.”

“Trying to use me as a messenger again?”

“No. This time he brought a lawyer.” Sophia rubbed her temples. “Wants to apply for ‘non-physical visitation rights’—video calls, letters, even sending gifts. His argument? ‘A father’s love shouldn’t be lost just because a marriage ends.’”

Elena exhaled, as if pushing out old damp air from her lungs. “So now he’s playing the emotional card while toeing the legal line?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.” She stared out the window. “Let him apply. The court will see Mia’s testimony, the psychological evaluation, and that time he stuffed a note into a teddy bear. Do you really think a judge will grant visitation rights to a man who hides love letters in stuffed animals?”

Sophia paused, then laughed. “No. He’s too desperate. You don’t act like this when you love someone. You act like this when you’re trying to win them back.”

Elena nodded, silent. She knew Sophia was right. Nicholas wasn’t fighting for the right to be a father. He was terrified of being erased. Like those people who wake up in the middle of the night and realize they’ve been blocked—then keep creating new accounts to message you, not because they love you, but because they can’t stand the idea that you no longer care.

—

That night, Elena didn’t go live. For once, she made mulled wine—orange slices, cinnamon sticks, the scent curling through the apartment like a slow confession. Mia sat on the rug, drawing her spring field trip checklist.

“Mom, I can bring three things on the trip.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I want my water bottle, my bear, and you.”

Elena’s hand stilled. “Mommy can’t go. I have to work.”

Mia looked up, her eyes bright as freshly wiped glass. “Then I’ll record videos for you! I’ll film every flower, every ant, and send them to you.”

“Okay.” Elena pulled her close, kissed her forehead. “You’re way more reliable than your dad.”

“Dad never even finished watching my drawings.”

“Because he’s always thinking about bigger things.”

“But I think finishing my drawings is the biggest thing.”

Elena’s throat tightened. She didn’t speak. Just held her daughter tighter. Outside, the moon floated between buildings, like a forgotten coin tossed into the sky.

The next morning, the kindergarten teacher called: “Mia said in circle time today that her dad can’t pick her up because ‘he has a hole in his heart that hasn’t been fixed yet.’”

Elena didn’t correct her. She knew that was the gentlest way a child could say it.

—

Aunt Clara was waiting downstairs, holding a courier envelope.

“Another one from him?” Elena asked.

“No.” Clara shook her head. “It’s from a publisher. They want to turn your livestream reading series into a physical book.”

Elena took it. The logo read *Stellar Culture*—a respected indie press. She opened it: a draft contract titled *Every Night at Eight, We Read a Book*—Author: Elena Lin.

“They watched three months of your edited streams,” Clara said, grinning. “Said your rhythm feels like poetry, but not forced. And when you read children’s books? Like you’re telling the last person on earth who still believes in fairy tales.”

Elena laughed quietly. “I read because Mia likes it. Not for fame.”

“And yet the world falls for people who aren’t trying to impress it.” Clara patted her shoulder. “Sign it. One day your daughter can point to a book in a*****e and say: *That’s my mom’s.*”

Back home, she laid the contract on the dining table. Mia ran over and drew a smiley face in the author signature line with a crayon. “Mom, I wanna write a book too!”

“What would you write about?”

*Why Dad Can’t Fix the Moon.*

Elena blinked.

“Because last time you said the moon got lost, and the bear helped it remember. But Dad can’t even finish a story. So he definitely can’t fix the moon.”

Elena spun her around in a circle. “Then you’ll be the writer, and I’ll be your editor.”

“Deal!” Mia high-fived her.

In that moment, Elena understood: she wasn’t running from Nicholas. She was rebuilding a life—one that didn’t need his approval, his presence, or even his understanding. And this life was starting to grow roots.

—

A few days later, Elena met with the publisher. The editor, Lena, was early thirties, round glasses, no-nonsense. “We don’t want a ‘wronged wife gets revenge’ bestseller. We want truth. We want to see how a woman learns to breathe again in the ruins.”

“So you want me to write about the divorce?”

“Yes. But don’t cry.” Lena pointed at Elena’s phone wallpaper—Mia running toward the camera, holding up a drawing. “This right here—this is stronger than any tear. Readers don’t want pity. They want hope.”

Elena thought for a moment. “I’ll write. But one condition: no mention of his name, no couple photos, no ‘he came back changed’ ending. This isn’t his story.”

“Of course,” Lena smiled. “It’s your monologue.”

Leaving the building, Elena got a text from an unknown number:

> I know you won’t meet me. But I’ve watched your livestreams. When you read *The Little Prince*—‘What is essential is invisible to the eye’—you didn’t look at the camera. It felt like you were saying it to me. I don’t know if you still hate me. But I know I can’t go back into your world.

She stared at the message for a long time. Then replied with two words:

> Correct.

And blocked the number.

—

On the weekend, Elena took Mia to the botanical garden. The sun was warm, the air thick with the smell of cut grass. They sat by the pond feeding ducks. Mia tore bread into tiny stars, tossing them one by one: “One for Mommy, one for Grandma, one for Teacher, and the last one’s for me.”

“What about Dad?” Elena asked gently.

Mia shook her head. “He didn’t come to get a star. And…” she tilted her head, thinking, “he said he’d take me on the Ferris wheel, but it rained and he never came. Only people who keep promises get stars.”

Elena said nothing. Just squeezed her hand.

On the drive home, Mia fell asleep in the backseat, mouth slightly open, half a piece of bread still clutched in her tiny fist. Elena watched her in the rearview mirror and realized—this child wasn’t a burden, or a weapon in some silent battle. She was proof that Elena was still alive.

As the car stopped downstairs, a black Mercedes pulled up ten meters away. The window rolled down. Nicholas sat inside, wearing a plain white shirt, no tie.

He didn’t get out. Didn’t honk. Just looked at her, like he was staring at a porcelain vase he’d dropped and could never glue back together.

Elena unbuckled, opened the door. She didn’t walk toward him. Just stood by her car, waiting.

Finally, he spoke: “I’ve started therapy. Twice a week.”

She nodded. “Good.”

“I’ve also… begun reading the books you’ve read on your stream.”

“Oh?”

“I finished *Bear Doesn’t Cry* last night. I… cried.”

Elena was quiet for a few seconds. “Mia drew a picture. Called it *Why Dad Can’t Fix the Moon*.”

His eyes flickered.

“She said only people who keep promises get stars.” She paused. “Do you understand what that means?”

He looked down, voice rough. “I do. I’m not here asking for forgiveness. I just… wanted you to know I’m not pretending to be dead anymore.”

“So you’re awake now?”

“Awake. But maybe too late.”

“It’s not too late,” she said, calm. “It’s that you were never really alive—never in our relationship. You were always living for how others saw you. Now, finally, you’re crying for yourself. That’s good. But don’t expect me to applaud.”

He didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod.

She turned to leave. He called her name.

“Elena.”

She looked back.

“You’re braver than I am.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t reply. Just closed the car door, carried Mia inside, and walked up the stairs.

Aunt Clara waited at the door. “He came?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t let him up?”

“No.”

Clara looked at the sleeping child in her arms, voice soft. “You know, real freedom isn’t when he stops coming. It’s when he shows up, and your heart doesn’t skip a beat.”

Elena nodded, carrying Mia to bed.

When the door shut behind them, she laid Mia down, pulled the blanket up to her chin. In her sleep, Mia murmured, “Mom… tomorrow I’ll draw a new book… called *The Moon Came Back*.”

Elena sat beside her, holding her hand, whispering, “Okay. I’ll read you the beginning.”

She didn’t turn on the light. Moonlight slipped through the window, glinting on Mia’s eyelashes like a dusting of silver.

She thought of Rilke, from university days: *There is no such thing as victory. To endure is all.*

She hadn’t won.

She hadn’t fallen.

And for the first time in years, she felt completely, unmistakably like herself.