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Chapter 7
Before he could read further, I grabbed his wrist, my voice low, lethal.
“I was eight months pregnant, Ethan.
Do you know what it feels like to feel a baby kick in the morning, then have it ripped silent from your body at night? To hear no first cry, just… nothing?”
“Stop–please,” he breathed, face paling.
“I’ll sign anything. Just let me fix this.”
His signature came quick, messy, as if the words were a knife he wanted to bury.
I closed the folder, standing to tower over him, my shadow swallowing his hunched form.
“Loss doesn’t teach you who’s real, Ethan. It just strips away the lies.”
He looked up, confused, but I was already gone, the door slamming behind me.
His final plea-“I’ll build a life with you, I swear!“–faded into the echo of my heels on linoleum.
“You won’t have a life to build,” I murmured, pulling the divorce papers from the folder as I stepped into sunlight.
Dialing my lawyer, I added, “Expedite it. No loose ends.”
Ethan emerged from police custody a month later, reeking of desperation, keys clutched in a fist.
But the door to his villa swung open to strangers–a middle–aged man in a tacky polo, barking orders at movers.
“Who the hell are you? Get out of my house!” Ethan snapped, voice cracking.
The man sneered, eyeing Ethan’s stubble and wrinkled suit.
“Your house? Bought it last week from Lila. Ring a bell? The pregnant woman in that viral video? Yeah, that hero.”
He brandished a feather duster like a weapon.
“Scram, bum. Don’t defile my new foyer.”
Ethan froze, keys clattering to the porch.
Sold? My villa?
He let the man shove him outside, collapsing onto the pavement, staring at the “FOR SALE” sign now flipped to
“SOLD.”
When he finally scrambled up, fingers fumbled for his phone–only to find her number disconnected, WhatsApp
Crashed Car Crashed Crush: Amnesia Became My Reset Button
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messages bouncing back as red alerts, his last voice note a desperate plea:
“This is a game, right? Come home, we’ll-”
The notification cut off: You are not friends with this user.
He called his assistant next, fury boiling. “What the hell did you let happen? My property-”
“Mr. Ethan,” the assistant said, tone icy, formal–the way he’d never dared speak before-“you signed everything over. Remember? To Ms. Lila.”
A pause, then: “And I’ve taken a new position. Goodbye.”
The line went dead. Ethan stared at the phone, pulse racing, as the movers hauled out his prized art collection, his life packed into cardboard boxes.
“You quit? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Ethan snarled, knuckles white around his phone.
His former assistant laughed–a cold, bitter sound.
“Still think you’re Mr. High–and–Mighty CEO? Newsflash: you’re nothing.”
Ethan’s chest tightened, dread pooling in his gut. “What are you talking about?”
“Hawthorne Corp’s gone. Bankrupt. Liquidated. That little transfer agreement you signed? Lila sold it for pennies a week ago.”
The assistant’s voice dripped with scorn.
“Wake up, Ethan. You’re not even a has–been–you’re a doormat.”
The line went dead. Ethan stared at the screen, her last words echoing: “Lose everything… see who’s real.”
He collapsed to his knees, a raw scream tearing from his throat–when a delivery man stepped forward, clipboard
in hand.
“Mr. Ethan? Package for you.”
His hand shook as he took it, memories of the blood–stained box flooding back. But this felt light, flat–a booklet.
“Lila sent this… she still cares,” he murmured, tearing it open.
The red cover hit him like a bullet: DIVORCE CERTIFICATE.
“No… no…” He pulled out the papers, vision blurring.
The signature at the bottom was neat, final–her name, not his.
He sprinted to the office tower, heart pounding, only to freeze at the entrance: the giant “Hawthorne” sign had been
Dant Ditton
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replaced, bold gold letters spelling “Hatherley“.
