Below the video, Nathan's message read: [Harry, take a good look. This is your refined wife. Always so calm and collected with you, isn't she? But with me? She's wild. She's mine.]
My lips pressed into a thin line. Anger didn't rise—not the blinding fury one might expect. Instead, there was only an eerie calm as I saved the video, tucking it away like evidence in a courtroom trial.
I stayed long enough to finish the meal we'd ordered. Alone in the sea of tables filled with laughing couples and clinking glasses, I didn't feel an ounce of bitterness. By the time I walked out, my decision was clear.
Once returning home, I packed efficiently, years of shared possessions ignored in favor of my essentials. The pile of luggage by the door felt like freedom incarnate. I then uploaded the damning evidence to Alexa's public social media account. No need for captions; the evidence spoke for itself.
Finally, I left the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, powered off my phone and snapped the SIM card in half. Without a glance backward, I hailed a cab and disappeared into the city lights.
