The Wife He Lost

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The Signature

James trusted me.

That realization settled over me the moment I slid the folder across the kitchen island, thin and unassuming, no different from the hundreds of documents I had placed in front of him over the years. Contracts. Addendums. Agreements that shaped the company he took credit for building. He never questioned them. Never read beyond the first page.

He trusted me because I had never failed him.

The kitchen was bright that morning, sunlight reflecting off polished marble and stainless steel. Everything about the space screamed success. Money. Stability. The life we had built together. A life I had built for him.

James stood on the other side of the island, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, phone vibrating occasionally beside his coffee mug. He looked tired. Busy. Important.

“I need you to sign these before you head out,” I said, keeping my voice light. Familiar. The same tone I used every time I handed him paperwork.

He barely glanced at the folder. “More restructuring?”

“Yes,” I replied easily. “Legal cleanup. Nothing major.”

That was true, in a way. It was legal. It was cleanup.

Just not the kind he expected.

James sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know I hate this stuff.”

I smiled faintly. “That’s why I handle it.”

He reached for the folder and flipped it open, skimming the first page like he always did. His eyes moved quickly, carelessly. He trusted summaries. Trusted my explanations. Trusted me.

“You’re sure this won’t affect operations?” he asked, pen already in hand.

“It won’t affect your work,” I said. “It’s just formalities.”

Another truth, carefully worded.

He nodded, satisfied, and signed.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

Each signature landed with a quiet finality that echoed inside me. The scrape of pen against paper felt louder than it should have. Permanent. Unforgiving.

I watched his hand move with mechanical precision. The same hand that had held mine through failed IVF appointments. The same hand that had rested on Valerie’s waist without my knowledge. The same hand that had built a future with me while planning one without me.

He did not read a single clause.

He did not notice the language that mattered.

He did not notice the date.

He signed away our marriage with the same ease he signed off on expense reports.

When he finished, he closed the folder and slid it back to me with a smile. “All done.”

“Thank you,” I said softly.

He lifted his mug, already distracted again. “What would I do without you, Daphne.”

The words landed heavier than any accusation.

I closed the folder carefully, aligning the edges before placing it in my bag. My hands did not shake. My heart did not race. I felt strangely hollow, like something vital had already been removed and my body had not caught up yet.

James leaned across the island and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be late tonight. Valerie’s appointment ran long yesterday, and Mom wants an update.”

Of course she did.

“Drive safe,” I said.

He left without looking back.

The door closed softly behind him.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space he had occupied. Waiting for something to happen inside me. Panic. Guilt. Second thoughts.

Nothing came.

Just numbness.

I went into my office and locked the door, my movements precise and controlled. I removed the folder from my bag and opened it one last time, reviewing the signatures with a detached calm that surprised even me.

Perfect.

Filed digitally within the hour.

By lunchtime, my marriage existed only as a legal process already in motion.

James still did not know.

The rest of the day passed in fragments, like scenes viewed through glass. Valerie knocked on my office door to ask about dinner. Evelyn reminded me not to upset her. Celeste made a comment about stress and pregnancy.

I smiled. I agreed. I listened.

No one noticed anything different.

That night, after the house fell silent and James slept beside me, I slipped out of bed without waking him. His breathing was slow and steady, the kind of peace reserved for people who believed they were safe.

I went to the guest room and closed the door behind me.

The boxes were already there.

I had gathered them over the last few days, quietly, methodically. Things I once thought were priceless. Evidence of a life I believed in.

Photographs filled the first box.

Our wedding day. Me in white, smiling like the world had finally chosen me back. James looking proud, almost awed, like he could not believe someone like me had chosen him.

Pictures from our first apartment. Sitting on the floor, eating takeout, laughing about how one day we would upgrade. Pictures from vacations. Holidays. Birthdays. Smiles that felt real at the time.

I picked one up.

James and me, arms wrapped around each other, his cheek pressed to my temple. He had written something on the back in his uneven handwriting.

Forever starts here.

I turned it over slowly and placed it face down.

The second box held letters.

Notes he had left me when he worked late. Apologies for missed dinners. Promises about the future. Words like always and forever written without hesitation.

I read a few.

You are my anchor.

I don’t know who I’d be without you.

Thank you for believing in me.

I folded each letter neatly before placing it on the pile.

The third box held smaller things. Mementos. A concert ticket from our first date. A watch I gave him when his company made its first million. A dried flower from a trip we took early in our marriage.

I carried everything to the fireplace.

It was decorative, unused, pristine. Much like our marriage had become.

I arranged the items carefully, almost reverently. Not because they deserved respect, but because I did. This had been my life. My sacrifice. My love.

I struck a match.

The flame flickered, uncertain at first, then caught quickly. Paper curled and darkened. Ink bled. Faces distorted. The fire grew hotter, stronger, consuming everything without mercy.

The heat brushed against my skin, sharp and real.

I did not cry.

I did not scream.

I watched.

This was not anger. This was finality.

When the last photograph turned to ash, I stirred the remains until nothing recognizable remained. No faces. No words. No promises.

Just gray dust.

I stood and brushed my hands together, leaving the room without looking back.

When I returned to the bedroom, James shifted slightly in his sleep, his arm finding me out of habit. I lay still, staring into the darkness, his touch meaningless now.

The man beside me slept peacefully.

The marriage between us was already dead.

And tomorrow, the rest of the world would begin to catch up.