Chapter 2 - The Key in the LockAt 3:18 AM, the electronic lock on the heavy oak front door chimed softly.
The handle turned, and the door swung inward—only to slam sharply into the side of the two heavy black suitcases I had stacked in the entryway. BANG.
"What the hell...?" Ethan’s slurred voice growled from the hallway.
He stumbled through the narrow opening, smelling strongly of expensive gin, stale cigarette smoke, and Chloe’s heavy vanilla perfume. His dark hair was messy, his collar unbuttoned, his jacket hanging loosely off one broad shoulder.
When his eyes fell on the suitcases blocking his path, his jaw tightened in irritation. He looked up, his bloodshot eyes finding me sitting calmly in the velvet armchair under the dim chandelier light.
"Madison?" Ethan sneered, shaking his head with a condescending laugh as he kicked one of the suitcases out of his way. "What is this dramatic stunt? Did you really pack my bags over a text message? God, you are so insanely dramatic."
I didn't answer. I took a slow, calm sip of my tea, watching him with an unblinking, terrifying stillness.
"I told you I was having a night out with the team from the firm," Ethan continued, walking into the living room, stripping off his suit jacket, tossing it toward the sofa. "Chloe got a promotion. We were celebrating. You don't own me, Madison. You don't get to dictate when I come home."
"Your ring is on top of the suitcase, Ethan," I said softly.
My voice was quiet, even, and devoid of any emotion, yet it cut through his drunken posture like a razor blade.
Ethan froze mid-step. His eyes darted toward the leather handle of the suitcase near the door, where the platinum band gleamed under the foyer light.
"I... I left it on the vanity because I didn't want to lose it while washing my hands at the venue," Ethan stammered, his confident, arrogant mask slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing a sudden, ugly wave of panic.
"You left it before seven o'clock," I corrected deadpan, every word dropped into the quiet living room like a slab of cold iron. "You left it before you ever stepped into the elevator. You went to The Velvet Room pretending to be single, Ethan. And at 1:43 AM, you texted me to divorce you."
Ethan let out a sharp, defensive scoff, crossing his arms over his chest. "I was drunk! You were nagging me with texts while I was trying to network with senior partners! It was a joke, Madison! You know I didn't mean it!"
I set my teacup down on the glass table with a quiet, deliberate click.
I stood up.
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My posture was straight, my spine rigid, my hazel eyes holding his with an absolute, unshakeable authority that made Ethan take a subtle step backward.
"It wasn't a joke to me, Ethan," I revealed, every word sharp as shattered glass. "You wanted a divorce. You've got one."
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