Diana’s career in real estate had always been solid, yet adversity ignited a sharper determination. She worked longer hours, pursued larger listings, and cultivated a reputation defined by reliability and strategic thinking. By autumn, commissions surged. By winter, savings exceeded anything she had accumulated during marriage. Financial stability became both shield and vindication.
One night, months after the divorce, Diana’s phone rang. Anthony’s name illuminated the screen.
She hesitated, then answered.
“Hello.”
“Diana.” His voice was thick, slurred, unmistakably drunk. “I need to talk to you.”
“You are not supposed to contact me.”
“I ruined everything,” Anthony whispered. “Erica meant nothing.”
Diana’s jaw tightened. “You should have thought about that earlier.”
“I love you.”
“If you loved me, you would not have betrayed me.”
The silence stretched painfully.
“It is never too late,” Anthony insisted.
“For us, it is.” Diana inhaled slowly. “Goodbye, Anthony.”
She blocked the number immediately. Her hands shook, anger and exhaustion colliding beneath the surface. Murphy stirred, lifting his head, and Diana stroked his fur until her breathing steadied.