Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Catarina snatched the phone from the carpet as if it were burning.

Extricated. Transported.

The words bounced around her skull like a rubber ball in a steel room.

She stood up, her knees shaking. She had to go. She had to go to the hospital. Not because she loved him-she told herself-but because this was a PR nightmare waiting to happen. Heiress's Husband Dies While She Partied. The headlines wrote themselves.

But before she could move, a wave of dizziness hit her. She hadn't eaten since lunch. The tequila shot was churning in her empty stomach, burning a hole through her lining.

She stumbled to the kitchen. She needed food. Just a bite, to steady her hands.

She yanked open the massive Sub-Zero refrigerator.

It was stocked. Jorden always kept it stocked. Rows of organic vegetables, expensive cuts of meat, imported cheeses.

But nothing was ready.

Usually, there was a container of cut fruit. A bowl of pasta salad. A pre-made smoothie. Jorden prepped everything so she never had to work for her food.

Now, it was just ingredients. Raw. Useless.

She stared at a block of cheddar cheese. She needed a knife.

She scanned the countertops. Where were the knives? She opened a drawer. Spatulas. She opened another. Towels.

Finally, she spotted the heavy wooden block pushed into the far corner under the cabinets. She grabbed the handle of a chef's knife. It felt alien in her hand, heavy and unbalanced. She had never actually used this thing. She sliced at the cheese, the blade slipping and nearly taking off her thumbnail. She dropped the knife with a clatter.

"Useless!" she screamed, though she wasn't sure if she meant the knife or herself.

She felt like a child in her own home. A helpless, incompetent child. And she hated Jorden for making her feel this way. He had enabled this. He had crippled her with his service.

She grabbed a carton of milk. She would just drink a glass of milk.

She checked the date. It expired yesterday.

Jorden never let expired milk stay in the fridge. He rotated the stock like a military quartermaster.

This meant he hadn't been paying attention for days. Even before the crash.

She threw the carton into the trash with a satisfying thud.

She pulled out her phone and opened a delivery app. Her fingers trembled as she ordered a pizza. A greasy, carb-loaded pizza. Jorden would disapprove. He would say it was bad for her skin.

Good, she thought viciously. I hope it gives me a zit. That'll show him.

While she waited, she paced the living room.

Meanwhile, uptown at New York-Presbyterian.

Jorden was eating lime Jell-O.

It tasted artificial and sweet, but he ate it with mechanical precision. His ribs ached with every breath, a dull, constant throb that reminded him he was alive. Every movement sent a spike of white-hot pain through his chest, but he categorized the sensation, acknowledged the nerve signals, and compartmentalized them. The Archive provided breathing techniques used by free divers to minimize oxygen consumption and manage pain. He breathed shallowly, efficiently.

Dr. Stein walked in, looking perplexed.

"Mr. Nash," the doctor said, flipping through a chart. "Your vitals are... remarkable. Your blood pressure has normalized. Your cortisol levels are down. Usually, after a trauma like this, the body is in shock for days."

Jorden swallowed the Jell-O. "The body follows the mind, Doctor. I've removed the stressor."

"The accident?"

"The marriage," Jorden corrected.

Dr. Stein raised an eyebrow but didn't pry. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. We might be able to move you out of the ICU tomorrow if this continues."

"Good. I have work to do."

"Work? You need rest."

"I have three years of lost time to make up for," Jorden said. He looked at his phone. He had asked Nurse Joy to help him order a replacement online, but for now, the cracked screen was still responsive to his touch.

He had unblocked Chloe just long enough to check the social media fallout. The algorithm, cruel and efficient, had already fed him a video.

It was from an hour ago. Chloe's Instagram Story.

Catarina and Atticus. Singing. Endless Love.

The caption: True Soulmates. EvansDeleon BirthdayBoy

Jorden watched the video. He watched Catarina's eyes.

The old Jorden would have been weeping. He would have been analyzing every pixel, looking for proof that she didn't mean it.

The new Jorden saw something else.

He saw the micro-expressions. The way Catarina leaned away when Atticus got too close. The tension in her jaw. The way her eyes kept darting to the table where her phone was.

She wasn't happy. She was distracted.

And Atticus? Jorden analyzed the man's posture. The narcissistic preening. The way he positioned himself to catch the best light, blocking Catarina.

Analysis: Atticus Deleon is a parasite. Catarina Evans is a host beginning to reject the transplant.

It didn't make him feel sorry for her. It made him feel vindicated.

He double-tapped the screen. He liked the video.

Then, he typed a comment.

Perfect match. Best wishes.

He hit send. It wasn't petty. It was a digital signature on a death certificate. A public acknowledgment that he was stepping aside, leaving them to their fate.

Then he turned off the phone.

Back at the penthouse, the pizza arrived. Catarina ate a slice standing up over the sink, grease dripping onto her chin. It tasted like cardboard and regret.

Her phone pinged.

A notification from Instagram.

Jorden Nash commented on Chloe Vance's post: Perfect match. Best wishes.

Catarina froze. A piece of pepperoni fell from her mouth into the sink.

He was awake.

He was online.

And he was... wishing them well?

"The audacity," she whispered. Her face flushed hot.

He wasn't dying. He was mocking her. He was sitting in a hospital bed, probably perfectly fine, making fun of her public humiliation.

"Best wishes?" she hissed. "I'll give you best wishes."

She threw the pizza crust into the disposal and grabbed her keys.

She was going to the hospital. And she wasn't going to hold his hand. She was going to strangle him.