I Saw Two Faces In My Husband’s Heart Chapter 07
I sent the signed divorce petition directly to his office via certified mail. I saved the tracking confirmation on my phone, but days passed without a single notification of his signature.
Samantha called me during her lunch break, her tone far more anxious than mine. “Has he signed the paperwork yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Are you going to follow up with his assistant?”
“No.”
“Aren’t you worried he’s going to drag this out in court?”
I looked out the window at the old oak trees lining the avenue, their gold leaves drifting down to the pavement. “The statutory waiting period is thirty days, Sam. Once that window closes, the filing proceeds automatically regardless of his signature. How long can he truly avoid it?”
The line went quiet before she spoke again, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I ran into Christian at a conference yesterday. He told me Ethan is completely unraveling. He’s showing up to partner meetings unshaven, entirely checked out during depositions, and he spends every night locked in his office until dawn. No one can get him to leave.”
“That is an administrative matter for his firm.”
“Chris… is there really no part of you that feels any sympathy for him?”
My fingers tightened around the edge of my desk, my nails digging hard into my palm. “Samantha, I miscarried our child alone on an operating table while he was taking lifestyle photos of another woman on a beach. I signed my own surgical consent forms while he was giving her his jacket. What exactly am I supposed to feel sympathy for?”
The silence on the other end was absolute. After a long pause, she murmured, “I’m sorry, Chris. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s fine.”
After hanging up, I stood by the glass for a long time until my legs grew stiff. Then, I turned back to my drafting table and picked up my charcoal pencils to resume working on my winter design collection.
A week later, a message arrived from his personal number: [Chris, please give me ten minutes. Just to talk. Properly.]
I stared at the text for a few seconds before typing a concise response: [Fine.]
We agreed to meet at a quiet coffee house below the Financial District. I intentionally arrived ten minutes late. As I pushed open the heavy glass door, a gust of autumn wind swept inside, and I pulled my trench coat tighter around my neck.
He was already seated in a secluded booth in the back, two paper cups resting on the table before him. A vanilla latte and a black Americano.
He had lost a noticeable amount of weight; his jawline appeared sharp and gaunt. The collar of his button-down shirt was completely wrinkled, and the top buttons were misaligned. In the past, I checked every detail before he left the house — ensuring his shirts were perfectly pressed and his silver cufflinks were straight.
Now, he couldn’t even manage basic care for himself.
He smoothly slid the vanilla latte across the polished wood toward me. “I remember you liked these.”
I looked at the cup but didn’t reach for it. “I don’t drink lattes, Ethan. I never have. I prefer black tea. You’re thinking of Amber. She’s the one who orders her coffee half-sweet. You simply forgot.”
His hand slowly retreated, his fingers tightening around his own cup. He began to speak rapidly, his voice cracking under the weight of his words. He told me he had been an absolute fool, that he was buried in regret, that twenty-one years of history couldn’t simply be erased by a single filing. He promised to reduce his billable hours, to transfer Amber to a satellite branch out of state, or even terminate her contract entirely. He swore he would change everything if I would just consider coming back.
I listened to the entire monologue without a single interruption. When he finally fell silent, I unlocked my phone and displayed a screenshot of his old text message.
An urgent matter came up with a corporate client out of state. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. If you feel unwell, have the driver take you. Love, Ethan.
“Ethan, on the day I sent that text, I was six weeks pregnant,” I said, my voice completely steady as I laid the device face-down on the table. “I told you my appointment was at nine, and you promised to be there. Instead, you vanished before dawn, leaving me to handle the clinic alone.”
I looked directly into his bloodshot eyes.
“The clinic was packed with couples. Every other woman had a partner holding her hand, kissing her forehead. I sat alone in the center row. And while the nurse was setting up my IV, I opened social media and saw Amber’s post. You were taking photos of her against the sunset. And in the corner of the frame, your hand was visible — still wearing the wedding band we exchanged.”
Every trace of color rapidly drained from his face.
“The complications began at ten that night. I hailed a cab to the ER by myself, signed the surgical authorization with my own hand, and went into the operating room alone. I called your phone repeatedly, but it was switched off. You didn’t bother returning the call until the following afternoon.”
I reached into my bag and placed a sleek leather folder on the table between us. Inside were the emergency admission receipts, the lab results, and the surgical consent form.
In the signature block, there was only one name written in trembling, erratic script: Christina Vance.
He opened the folder, his fingers shaking violently as he turned the pages. When his eyes landed on the consent form, his shoulders began to shudder. He abruptly rose from his seat, walked around the table, and dropped to his knees on the floor beside my booth, reaching out to grasp my hands.
“Chris… I swear to you, I didn’t know. I had no idea about the pregnancy. I didn’t know you were in the hospital.”
I calmly pulled my hands out of his grip, leaning back into the leather booth.
“Ethan, your heart is completely empty of me now. Just sign the papers.”
I stood up, leaving the folder on the table. As I walked out of the coffee house, I caught his reflection through the glass window. He was still kneeling by the empty booth, clutching the crumpled medical records against his chest.
I turned and walked toward the subway. The autumn sun was exceptionally bright. On my way back to the loft, I stopped by an organic market to pick up some fresh root vegetables and pork cuts, intending to spend the evening preparing a slow-cooked stew for myself.