My Ex-Wife Saved Me

Goodbye Means Goodbye

Someone who's been watching you for a very long time., and trust me, Shammah Rowland, your story is far from over.

The message was followed by a photo.

Shammah's breath caught in her throat.

It was a picture of her, taken tonight, walking out of the Khai mansion with her bag.

Someone had been there. Watching. Waiting.

Shammah looked around the bus wildly, but everyone was asleep or staring at their phones. No one was looking at her.

She deleted the messages with shaking hands and turned off her phone.

But the fear stayed, cold and heavy in her chest.

Whoever sent those messages knew where she was, knew what she was carrying, and worst of all, they were probably following her.

Shammah pressed her hand to her stomach and whispered into the darkness, "I won't let anyone hurt you. I promise."

But even as she said it, she wondered: how do you protect someone from an enemy you can't see?

3 days had passed since Shammah left Chevron City. She was now living in a tiny room above a bookshop in Winterclan. The room was cold, the heater barely worked, and the wallpaper was peeling, but it was hers, and no one here knew who she was.

Shammah sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the divorce settlement papers that had arrived that morning. A lawyer's letter was attached. It explained that she needed to come to Chevron City in three days to sign the final documents in front of a notary. Only then would the two million dollars be transferred to her account.

She crumpled the letter in her fist. She didn't want his money, but she needed it. For the baby. For her future.

Her phone rang.

The screen lit up with a name she hadn't seen in days: David Khai.

Shammah's heart jumped into her throat. Why was he calling? What could he possibly want?

She let it ring three times before answering.

"Hello?" Her voice was calm. Steady. She wouldn't let him hear her fear.

"Shammah." His voice was low, careful. "You didn't answer my emails."

"I don't check emails anymore," she lied. She had read every single one. Short, cold messages from his lawyer about paperwork and signatures.

There was a pause on the other end. Then David spoke again. "You need to come back to the city. The final signing is in three days."

"I know. I got the letter."

"Will you be there?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Another pause. Longer this time. Shammah could hear him breathing.

"Shammah..." His voice changed. It was softer now, almost uncertain. "Are you okay?"

The question caught her off guard. She almost laughed. After everything, after three years of being invisible, after being thrown away like trash, he was asking if she was okay?

"Why do you care?" she asked coldly.

"I don't—" He stopped himself. "I just... you left so suddenly. You didn't take anything. Not even the money I offered for moving expenses."

"I don't need your charity, David."

"It's not charity. It's part of the agreement."

"The agreement is over," Shammah said. Her voice was sharp now, like a blade. "You got what you wanted. I signed the papers. I'm out of your life. So why are you calling me?"

Silence.

Shammah could picture him in his office, standing by the tall windows, his jaw tight, trying to find the right words. He was never good with words. Only numbers. Only deals.

"I'm calling because..." David's voice trailed off. "Because you deserve to know that the divorce will be finalized next week. After you sign the final documents."

"Good," Shammah said. "Then we never have to see each other again."

She heard him exhale sharply, like she had struck him.

"Is that what you want?" he asked quietly.

"What I want doesn't matter, does it?" Shammah's voice cracked, just a little. She hated herself for it. "It never mattered. Not when you married me, not when you ignored me for three years, not when you handed me divorce papers like I was a business deal gone wrong."

"Shammah, that's not—"

"Don't." She cut him off. "Don't tell me it wasn't like that, because it was exactly like that. You never saw me, David. You never even tried."

The line went quiet again. Shammah closed her eyes and pressed her free hand against her stomach. She could feel the baby now, just barely.

"You're different," David said suddenly.

"What?"

"Your voice. The way you talk. You're... different."

Shammah's eyes opened. She stared at the cracked ceiling. "I'm not different, David. I'm just done pretending."

"Pretending what?"

"That I need you." The words came out strong and clear. "That I'm nothing without the Khai name. That I'm the scared little girl who signed her life away because she had no choice." She paused, letting the silence sit between them. "I don't need you anymore, and I never will again."

David didn't respond right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained. "Where are you staying?"

"That's none of your business."

"Shammah, I just want to make sure you're safe"

"I'm safer now than I ever was in your house," she said. "Goodbye, David."

She hung up before he could say another word.

Her hands were shaking. Her heart was pounding. But for the first time in three years, Shammah felt powerful.

She looked at the divorce papers on the bed. In three days, she would go back to Chevron City. She would sign the final documents. She would take the money, and then she would disappear again.

Across the city, David stood frozen in his office, staring at his phone. The call had ended, but her voice still echoed in his ears.

I don't need you anymore, and I never will again.

Those words hit him harder than he expected. Harder than they should have.

He sat down heavily in his chair. His chest felt tight. His hands felt cold.

Ivy's voice drifted from the doorway. "Was that her?"

David didn't answer.

Ivy walked in, her heels clicking on the marble floor. "You called her, didn't you?"

"It was about the paperwork," David said flatly.

"Right. Paperwork." Ivy's tone was mocking. She perched on the edge of his desk. "You know, for someone who claims she meant nothing, you sure seem bothered."

"I'm not bothered."

"Then why do you look like that?"

David glared at her. "Like what?"

"Like you just lost something important." Ivy leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. "Did she say something to you? Did she beg you to take her back?"

"No." David's voice was quiet. "She didn't beg. She didn't ask for anything."

Ivy frowned. "Then what did she say?"

David looked out the window at the city lights. He could still hear Shammah's voice, strong, cold, final.

I'm safer now than I ever was in your house.

"She said goodbye," David whispered.

That night, Shammah lay in bed, one hand on her stomach, the other holding her phone.

She opened her email and saw a new message from David's lawyer. The subject line read: Final Divorce Hearing – Confirmation Required.

She was about to delete it when another email appeared. This one had no subject line. The sender was Unknown.

Shammah's blood ran cold. She opened it.

Inside was a single sentence:

Congratulations on your freedom, Shammah. But freedom comes with a price. And yours is about to be paid in full.

Attached to the email was a photo.

Shammah's hands shook as she clicked it open.