The Thirty-Eighth Divorce's End

Ilene was putting on the performance of a lifetime. "She's lying!" she shrieked, burying her face in Ethan's chest. "She's always been jealous of me! She did this to hurt me! To remind me of what I lost because of her!" The party guests crowded around, their faces a mixture of shock and disgust. They saw the photos. They saw the victim, crying in the arms of her protector. And they saw me, the villain. Their whispers turned into a chorus of condemnation. "How could she be so cruel?" “To do such a thing… it is not merely cruel, it is an act of pure malice.” My entire body was shaking. I tried to speak, to defend myself, but the words wouldn't come. Ethan pulled away from Ilene. He walked over to where I stood, his face a mask of such rigid fury that the muscles in his jaw stood out like cords. He picked up one of the photos. And then he threw it at me. The sharp corner of the photograph cut the skin just above my eyebrow. A single drop of blood trickled down my face. "I told you," he said, his voice a low, chilling whisper that cut deeper than any physical blow. "I told you we were paying a debt. I told you to be patient. I told you I would make it up to you once she was better." His eyes were filled with a terrifying mix of pain and rage. "But you couldn't wait, could you? You had to do this. You had to push her, to torture her. Are you happy now? Do you want to see her dead?" The injustice of it all, the sheer, crushing weight of his blame, finally broke me. "It wasn't me!" I cried, the tears I had held back for so long finally falling. "I would never! We can check the fingerprints on the box! It was her!" I looked at him, my heart pleading for him to see the truth. "Ethan, I loved you. I swear, the biggest regret of my life is saying yes to you that day." My words seemed to hit him. He froze, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. For a second, the rage subsided, and he looked like the man I used to know. He looked lost. He took a step toward me. But Ilene saw her control slipping. "I can't take it anymore!" she screamed, breaking away from the crowd. She ran out of the ballroom, out into the night. "I'm going to kill myself!" Ethan didn't hesitate. He didn't even look at me. He just ran after her. The guests stared at me, their faces cold and unforgiving. I was tried and convicted in the court of their opinion. I didn't have the strength to argue anymore. I was so tired. I turned and walked away, leaving the whispers and the judgment behind me. I did not stay to watch. I turned and walked toward the empty corridor, my own footsteps a dull, metronomic beat against the marble. But I could not outpace the sounds from behind me—a sudden, collective intake of breath from the onlookers, followed by a flurry of whispers that pursued me like hornets. “Good heavens, he kissed her,” a woman murmured. “Right there.” “I always said they belonged together,” another replied. The voices were a thousand tiny cuts, each one more precise and painful than the last. I quickened my pace, but it was no use. The distant traffic, the rustle of leaves, the very hum of the city seemed to extinguish itself. All I could hear was the frantic, percussive thrumming of blood in my own ears. I finally understood. I had lost. I had lost him years ago. I was just the last one to know. I put a hand over my eyes, but it was too late. The image their words had painted was burned into my mind forever. I touched my own cheek and was surprised to find it numb, as if the flesh belonged to a stranger. A single, silent tear slid down my cheek and fell to the pavement. It was the last tear I would ever shed for Ethan Bruce.