Without even looking at me, he grabbed his keys and headed for the door.
“You wait until I get back. We’ll talk properly then.”
And just like that, he left, never glancing back—not even noticing the blood still trailing down my legs from the miscarriage. I stared at the closed door, a wave of coldness washing over me. For the first time, I didn’t chase after him. I didn’t beg or cry like I used to. Instead, I stood still, wondering what I had been holding onto all these years.
Three minutes later, a notification pinged on my phone. Sanz had sent me a voice message:
"I’ll explain everything about Cassandra, but don’t think you can run. Wherever you go, I’ll drag you back."
Hearing his words, a surge of sadness washed over me.
Eight years of unrequited love. Five years of marriage. And in the end, all I got was a threat.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. I sent a message to a lawyer I knew.
"Hello, I want to file for divorce, as soon as possible."
After handling that, I dragged my weakened body to the traffic police department. Even though I was acting tough, I was in big pain. I was hit by a car earlier.