Strings Muffled by the Fog

After I sent the message, Jordan never replied.

I sat alone through the night, until the first hint of dawn crept in and the sound of the keypad unlocking echoed through the villa’s front door.

Jordan was back. He reeked of alcohol and a strange perfume—the exact scent Jennifer had worn the day before. His suit jacket was draped carelessly over his arm, his tie pulled loose and crooked. Handsome as he was, his face carried the weary look of a hangover.

Seeing me on the sofa, he paused, then frowned, his tone thick with displeasure. “Why are you still up? Pouting all night?”

He walked over and stood above me, looking down as if I were a petulant child.

“Divorce? Margaret, do you have any idea what you’re saying?”

He tugged at his tie and scoffed. “Because I missed our anniversary? How old are you, playing these childish games?”

I lifted my head and met his searching gaze calmly. “I’m perfectly clear-headed. Jordan, I’ll have my lawyer draw up the divorce papers. You can choose to walk away with nothing or split the assets fifty-fifty. It’s up to you.”

He looked like he’d just heard the world’s biggest joke. Leaning down, he gripped my chin, his fingers digging in painfully.

“Say that again.”

His eyes turned to ice—a look so cold and sharp it felt physical. “Margaret, have you forgotten who gave you everything? Your job, your reputation, this house you live in—which of them didn’t come from me? Without me, what are you?”

“What am I?”

I looked at him, my gaze utterly dead. “I’m the fool you’ve deceived for eight years. The doll you find disgusting but still use as a prop in your loving-husband act. Jordan, if it makes you sick, it makes me sick too.”

His expression shifted instantly. His grip on my chin tightened sharply. “You heard?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I wrenched my face free, stood up, and faced him.

“Yes. I heard.”

I went on, voice flat. “‘Used up.’ ‘Looks like death warmed over.’ ‘Dumber than a box of rocks.’ I heard it all. Mr. Jordan, your acting is truly masterful. I’m in awe.”

A flicker of panic crossed Jordan’s eyes, quickly replaced by fury.

He probably never expected the wife he saw as weak, obedient, and compliant to speak in such a cold tone.

“You followed me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“The watch you gave me works too well. The GPS never lies.”

I curled my lips into a sarcastic smile. “Mr. Jordan, drop the act. If you’re not tired of it, I am. Nine a.m. tomorrow, at the civil affairs office.”

With that, I turned to go upstairs.

But he grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it felt like he might crush the bone.

“I don’t agree!” he growled, eyes bloodshot. “Margaret, you’re not leaving me! You’ll stay by my side for the rest of your life, as Mrs. Jordan!”

I struggled with all my strength but couldn’t break free.

Old trauma triggered an instinctive resistance, a deep fear of male touch. My stomach churned violently, and I couldn’t hold back a dry heave.

Seeing my reaction, the anger in his eyes flared hotter—as if my disgust had wounded his ridiculous pride.

“What are you pretending for?” he sneered. “Playing the innocent with me, but what about with other men? Margaret, can you honestly say you haven’t thought about a man in these eight years? That body of yours—who else would want it besides me?”

His venomous words were like poisoned needles, stabbing straight into my heart.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Jordan let go of me impatiently and went to answer it.

Standing at the door was Jennifer, wearing flawless makeup and a Chanel suit.

She held a box in her hands. Seeing me inside, she feigned surprise, covering her mouth. “Oh, Margaret, I… I didn’t mean to intrude. Jordan left his watch at my place last night. I thought it might be important, so I brought it right over.”

She handed the jewelry box I’d given him to Jordan, but her gaze settled challengingly on me.

I stared coldly at her, and at Jordan, whose expression grew darker as he took the box.

What a perfectly staged scene.

“Miss Jennifer,” I said, my voice quiet but clear enough to carry across the living room. “As a doctor, let me offer some friendly advice. The hymen is fragile tissue. Repeated repairs don’t just risk infection—they can cause necrosis. You’ve had two this month. Keep it up, and not even a miracle will fix it.”

Jennifer’s face went pale in an instant.

Jordan whipped his head around, eyes shooting daggers at me. “Margaret, shut up!”

“Why would I?”

I met his gaze and walked step by step toward Jennifer, looking into her panicked eyes. “Mr. Jordan, aren’t ‘clean’ girls your favorite? I’m just helping you verify how ‘clean’ your new fling really is. Nine procedures, Miss Jennifer. Your dedication is impressive.”

“You… you’re lying!” Jennifer trembled with rage, tears springing to her eyes on cue as she hid pitifully behind Jordan. “Jordan, I haven’t! She’s slandering me!”

Jordan shielded her behind him, looking at me with disgust. “Enough! Margaret, what’s happened to you? So bitter and sharp-tongued, like some shrew!”

I laughed, so hard tears nearly spilled.

“What I’ve become—isn’t it all thanks to you?”

I pointed toward the door. “Take your ‘clean’ girl and get out of my house.”

“Your house?” Jordan laughed in furious disbelief. “My name is on the deed! You’re the one who should leave!”

“Fine.”

I nodded and turned to walk out.

I took nothing with me—not even bothering to change out of my slippers.

As I reached the doorway, Jordan grabbed me again. His voice held a trace of suppressed panic. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t look back, answering coldly, “Somewhere you aren’t. To breathe fresh air.”