Package Delivered Safe, Wife Left Behind

06:00 a.m. Saturday.

I made breakfast the same way I used to when we were first married.

He stumbled out of the bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and went still at the sight of the table.

“You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Right. Sera texted last night. Wants to throw a big party for closing that construction deal. You in?”

A victory party.

They might as well make it a farewell.

It was always the same with her.

Last year, on Donovan’s birthday, I’d flown fourteen hours back from Dubai with a custom, limited-edition cigar case, the one he’d talked about for months.

I walked into the house, and the place was done up. Balloons. A cake. And the same cigar case, already sitting there, from Seraphina.

He’d glanced at mine and said, “Sera already got me one. Just leave yours on the bar.”

It sat there for three days before I threw it out.

“Whatever you want,” I said.

“Cool. I’ll work it out with her.” He took a sip of coffee, then paused. “Oh, and she’s looking at a new Bentley today. I’m going with her. Might be late.”

“Okay.”

“You’re being weirdly chill about this.” He raised a brow, almost surprised.

“I’ve always been chill about it.”

He laughed softly, shook his head, and went back to his food.

“Donovan.”

“Hm?”

“If I left and never came back… would you even care?”

He frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just asking.”

“Where would you even go? Stop being dramatic.” He stood, dropped his plate in the sink, and grabbed his jacket.

“I’m out. I’ll be back after Sera’s car.”

He was almost through the door when I said his name again.

“Donovan.”

“What now?”

“Can you not go today?”

His face tightened, irritation sharp in his eyes.

“I already told her I’d be there. I’m not flaking. You need something?”

I wanted to say this was the last time we’d sit in the same room. The last breakfast. The last anything.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Later.”

I stood up and started to pack.

I left his things in the bathroom. Left Seraphina’s lipstick where it sat. I turned our wedding photo face down on the shelf in the study.

Then I walked back to the living room.

The divorce agreement lay open on the coffee table, my signature already at the bottom. All it needed was his.

I stuck a note on the front.

Dubai transfer is finalized. I’m gone. Read it. If you’re good with it, sign and have your consigliere call mine.

I wheeled my suitcases to the door.

One last look at the house I’d lived in for four years. At the custom massage cushion for Seraphina, still in its bag on the counter.

Four years. The place was full of him. Full of her. Almost nothing left of me.

I pulled the door shut without a sound.

All the drivers were out, so I called an Uber. The moment I slid into the back seat, I turned on airplane mode.

20 hours later, the plane touched down at Dubai International.

New city. New airport.

For the first time in four years, I was free.

I switched off airplane mode.

My phone exploded.