“The paperwork is finalized,” he wrote. “You can sign whenever you’re ready.”
I stared at the message for a long time.
“Come to the hospital,” I replied.
I didn’t want to wait another second.
He arrived that afternoon, briefcase in hand, speaking in careful, professional tones. I signed the documents sitting upright in the hospital bed, my hair loosely tied, my gown still open from nursing. He explained every clause: properties in Dallas, diversified investments, corporate shares, secured trusts, liquid assets.
Two hundred million dollars.
Even hearing it aloud felt surreal.
But this time, I didn’t feel dizzy.
I felt powerful.
A week later, I returned to the apartment Ethan and I had shared in downtown Phoenix.
He was there.
Sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone like nothing in the world had shifted.
When I walked in carrying the car seat, he barely glanced up.
“I figured you’d stay at your sister’s,” he said flatly.
“I came for my things,” I answered calmly.
He frowned. “Your things? I pay the rent here.”
Before, that sentence would have crushed me.
“Don’t worry,” I said quietly. “I won’t need your apartment.”
He stood, irritation flashing across his face.