When I told my wife I wanted a divorce, she was at the sink, washing dishes. Her hands, slick with soap, paused for a fraction of a second. Then, she gave a slight nod. "Okay." This was the fifth time I had brought it up. The first four times had been a storm of shock, anger, and grief, her pleas grating on my last nerve. But this time, she simply agreed. Just like that. A casual, weightless acceptance, as if I’d merely commented on the weather. I watched her slender back, a silhouette against the kitchen window. A surge of exhilaration washed over me, but beneath it, a strange and unfamiliar feeling bloomed in my chest... 1 I was still on the sofa, trying to decipher the strange knot of unease in my gut, when Isabella called. "So? Did she agree this time?" Her voice was soft, but laced with a nervous tension. I snapped back to the present, shaking my head as if to clear it. A smile broke across my face. "Yeah. She agreed." Silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then, her voice trembling, "Really? Ethan, you’re not joking, are you?" A pang of sympathy hit me. "Bella," I said, my voice softening, "it's true. She really said yes. We can finally be together, out in the open." A quiet sob came through the phone. "Oh, thank God... I can finally have you." Her raw, overwhelming emotion brought a sting to my own eyes. This was the fifth time I'd asked Christine for a divorce. The first four had been met with a hard no. Over two years, her reactions had devolved from shock and fury to a painful, pleading despair. And I, in turn, had gone from guilt and shame to a weary, numb annoyance. Every failed negotiation felt like a personal failure, a betrayal to Isabella. She was always so hopeful, so full of longing, yet so patient. Even with the disappointment clouding her face, she would be the one to comfort me. "She's a woman, I get it," she'd say. "And you two have a child. It's fine. We'll just work harder, land a few more projects, and we can offer her a bigger settlement. God, if it wasn't for true love, why would we be doing any of this…?" Today was the first time I had been home in two months. I’d called ahead. When I walked in, a full dinner was on the table. Christine was sitting under the warm glow of a floor lamp, lost in a book. She looked up as I entered, folded the corner of a page, and calmly told me to wash up for dinner. Our daughter, Sophie, was at a friend's birthday party downstairs. Before coming, Isabella and I had made a pact. If Christine refused again, we would increase the settlement offer in the divorce agreement by another twenty percent. I had steeled myself for another all-night battle. I never could have predicted this. I'd barely gotten the words out, and she had agreed without a fight. On the phone, even Isabella was puzzled. "Ethan," she said after a thoughtful pause, "she's not planning something, is she? Some kind of trick?" I couldn't blame her for being suspicious. As the head of negotiations for my company, her mind was trained to look for the hidden angle, the trap in every easy victory. I shook my head, even though she couldn't see me. "I doubt it. Christine's a stay-at-home mom. She doesn't know the first thing about corporate backstabbing." Isabella’s voice grew gentle again. "You can never be too sure. She might not know how, but that doesn't mean she can't find someone who does. For the company… for our future… I think you should be careful, Ethan." I was silent for a moment. "Don't worry," I said. 2 Christine emerged from the bedroom holding a file. I watched her, studying her expression. Her eyes were placid pools, her face a calm mask. None of the tearful breakdowns or hysterical rage I'd grown used to. "I've already signed it," she said, holding the papers out to me. "Just let me know when you've scheduled the appointment at the courthouse." She handed me the document and turned to make tea. The kettle began its low, gurgling song, and soon the rich, earthy scent of dark tea filled the room. When she poured, I instinctively reached out to take the cup from her. But she brought it to her own lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip, her expression one of pure, relaxed contentment. Seeing my outstretched hand, she looked at me, a flicker of genuine confusion in her eyes. "The divorce papers are in your hand, aren't they?" My brow furrowed. I pulled my hand back and looked down at the agreement. Ten minutes later, I looked up, bewildered. "This is the same one I gave you last time. You haven't changed a single word?" Christine was curled up on the sofa, sipping her tea and returning to her book. She glanced up, a momentary blankness in her eyes before she registered my question. "Oh. No, I didn't. It seemed fine to me." I stared at her for a long moment, then decided to press on. "Christine, if this is still too hard for you, I can increase the settlement amount." She tilted her head, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Increase it? Has Isabella approved that?" A familiar wave of irritation washed over me. For the past two years, every conversation about the divorce inevitably circled back to Isabella. In Christine's eyes, I was the weak-willed cheater and Isabella was the shameless homewrecker. She had no idea what we'd been through—the guilt, the agonizing struggle, the painful journey that had led us to this point. 3 The truth is, Isabella and I couldn't stand each other at first. My business partner had hired her as our Director of Negotiations, and she was everything I wasn't used to. A whirlwind of stiletto heels, blood-red lipstick, and figure-hugging pencil skirts. She was a shark at work—ruthless at the negotiating table and unafraid to challenge me in front of the entire team. Christine was her polar opposite. Gentle, quiet, and unassuming. She rarely wore makeup, her clothes were simple, and her world revolved around me, our daughter, and her little universe of tea, books, and houseplants. I had never encountered a woman like Isabella in my personal life. One day, as I was complaining about her yet again, Christine was carefully trimming an orchid. She looked up from between the vibrant green leaves and smiled at me. "You've been mentioning her a lot lately." My perception of Isabella shifted the day I found her crying in the stairwell, huddled on the steps with her face in her hands. Our eyes met. Hers were red-rimmed and raw. She wiped her tears away, scrambled to her feet, and mumbled an apology before marching away, head held high. I later learned from my partner that she was a single mother, divorced due to domestic abuse. She was raising a seven-year-old daughter on her own while her ex-husband continued to harass her. Knowing the vulnerability hidden beneath her tough-as-nails exterior changed everything. In turn, her attitude towards me softened. We became a team, our professional synergy growing stronger by the day. In meetings, she understood my unspoken intentions; I knew when her bravado was a bluff. At boozy client dinners, she'd discreetly block a drink for me or slide a cup of hot tea my way when I'd had too much. Then came the night I saw her ex-husband cornering her, getting aggressive. I didn't think; I just charged in and threw a punch. I heard her gasp. I remember coming home that night with my head bandaged. Christine was terrified. She clung to me, her voice trembling. "Does it hurt? Your head can't get hurt! Are you really okay?" Isabella and I didn't sleep together until three years after we met. It was at the company's annual retreat in a charming, historic town. Christine had always dreamed of visiting a place like that. For one of her birthdays, she’d wished for me to take her and Sophie on a trip to a quaint old town. So, when the events department asked for a location, the words "a historic town" just tumbled out of my mouth. My original plan was to surprise Christine, but by then, my relationship with Isabella had become a tangled, unspoken thing. On some dark impulse, I never told Christine about the trip. The nights in that town were too beautiful, the wine too easy to drink, the scenery a mesmerizing blur. Isabella, wearing only a silk nightgown, knocked on my hotel room door. We spent a wild, forbidden night together. We both knew we had crossed a line. When we got back, I wrestled with my conscience and decided to cut off all direct work contact with her. She accepted my decision without a word of protest, but her eyes were filled with a silent, sorrowful reproach. Later, Christine saw the photos from the trip on my phone. "When did you go to a historic town?" she asked, her face lighting up. "Why didn't you take me?" Guilt coiled in my stomach. "It was just for a conference," I mumbled. "A one-day thing. It wasn't worth mentioning." Eventually, Isabella resigned. I agreed it was for the best. We both knew it was the only way. After she left, we didn't speak once. Until three months later, when we found ourselves on opposite sides of a negotiation table. She had gone to work for a competitor. At the dinner that followed, their CEO and his cronies were relentless, forcing drink after drink on me. Just as they were about to pour another one down my throat, Isabella, who had been silent all evening, grabbed a bottle and smashed it over the CEO's head. She lost her job, her savings, and spent fifteen days in a holding cell. I was there to pick her up the day she was released. We went straight to a hotel. We barely left the room for days. And in that haze, I had an epiphany. You only live once. To hell with duty, to hell with morality. Call me a scoundrel, a homewrecker, I didn't care. I was going to dive in. I was going to be reckless. I couldn't betray a woman who had sacrificed so much for me. ...My thoughts snapped back to the present. On this day, as my seven-year marriage was finally ending, the last thing I wanted was to hear Isabella's name from Christine's lips. "I'll let you know when the appointment is set. Don't be late," I said coldly, and left. As I stepped into the elevator, I ran into my daughter, Sophie. She was holding a slice of birthday cake, a huge grin on her face that vanished the moment she saw me. "Sophie, Dad's—" She brushed past me without a word, her face a blank mask. I frowned. Sophie used to throw her arms around my neck and shout "Daddy!" the second she saw me. After two months apart, she was looking at me like I was a stranger. I had specifically told Christine not to tell Sophie about the divorce yet. Clearly, she hadn't listened. From the lobby, I glanced up at our apartment window. Sophie was there, happily feeding a piece of cake to Christine, who was leaning down to accept it, her eyes crinkling into a smile. My phone buzzed. A text from Isabella. [Honey, come home soon. Your wife has a big reward waiting for you tonight!] It was the first time she had ever called me that. I could feel her excitement, her elation, vibrating through the screen. I let out a long breath and walked away, not looking back. 4 The divorce agreement stipulated that Christine would get full custody of Sophie and the apartment we lived in. Since my company was about to go public, my shares would remain untouched, but I would pay her a settlement of eight hundred thousand dollars, due in one year. When Isabella saw the amount, her heart ached for me. "You built this company from scratch, Ethan. All those sleepless nights. To just give that much away... how many projects will it take to earn that back?" "I'm the one who wronged her," I reassured her. "We should be grateful. If she'd pushed for half of our marital assets, it would have been far, far more than this." Isabella rested her head on my shoulder. "I just worry about you working yourself to death." She was incredibly efficient. Within days, she had scheduled the appointment to finalize the divorce. I sent the time to Christine. She replied with a single word: [Okay.] In the days leading up to it, Isabella was visibly glowing. And why not? It had been two long years since I first asked for a divorce. We had endured so much, carried so many burdens to get to this point. Still, a part of her couldn't quite believe it. "Why did she suddenly agree? Are you sure there isn't a catch? It just feels too good to be true." It wasn't just her. I had my own doubts. Late one night, as Isabella slept soundly beside me, I stood by the window smoking, my mind a tangled mess. A small incident surfaced from my memory. About a month ago, I was in a meeting when Christine called, her voice tight with anger. "Why did you give Sophie's spot in the piano competition to Isabella's daughter?" I was instantly annoyed. "Sophie competes every year," I snapped. "Belle has never had an opportunity like this. What's the big deal letting her have a turn? Besides, I'm a patron of that arts academy. Sophie will have plenty of other chances." There was a long silence on the other end. Then, in a low voice, Christine said, "Do you have any idea how hard Sophie has worked for this competition? She said she wanted to prove that her dad didn't play favorites. She wanted to win first place to make you proud..." I hated being emotionally blackmailed like this. "I'll buy her a gift to make up for it," I said gruffly. "Belle is a child who's had a rough life—" She hung up before I could finish. On the day of the competition, I drove Isabella and Belle to the venue. We got stuck in traffic, and through the car window, I saw Christine and Sophie on her small scooter. Christine didn't know how to drive, and while the academy wasn't far, the roads were always congested. The wind was strong that day, whipping their hair into a tangled mess. They looked small and vulnerable. I glanced over at Belle in her exquisite princess dress, sipping milk and nestled safely in Isabella's arms. Suddenly, a car cut them off. The scooter tipped, and Christine and Sophie tumbled onto the pavement. A primal urge to jump out of the car seized me, but Isabella gripped my arm, shaking her head slowly. "She already dislikes me and Belle. Showing up now will only make her angrier. Look, they're okay. They're getting up." I looked. They were helping each other to their feet. Just then, Belle rolled down her window. "Sophie!" she yelled, her voice dripping with triumph. "We're going to the competition in Ethan's car! Are you going too?" In a flash of panic, my eyes met Christine's. I braced myself for an outburst. But she only gave me a fleeting, unreadable glance before turning to comfort Sophie. A moment later, they were back on the scooter and gone. ...Ever since I'd chosen this path, I'd made a conscious effort not to dwell on things that might weaken my resolve. I couldn't do right by everyone. I told myself that a generous settlement would make up for it. For a stay-at-home mom who had never worked a day in her life, it was a windfall. Compared to most, she was lucky. I stubbed out my cigarette, extinguishing the unwanted memory along with it. 5 On the day of our appointment, Isabella insisted on coming with me. She said she wanted to offer Christine a sincere apology. I hesitated. "What if she makes a scene? Does something to you..." She gave a bitter smile. "Then I'll have deserved it. It'll be my penance." We arrived at the courthouse ten minutes early. Isabella squeezed my hand, a silent gesture of mutual support. When Christine walked in, I didn't recognize her at first. She was a world away from her usual simple, makeup-free look. She wore a navy-blue trench coat cinched at the waist and a pair of high heels. Her long, dark hair, glossy as satin, cascaded down her back. Her makeup was subtle, accentuating her naturally fair skin and making her eyes sparkle. She walked with an easy grace, her hands tucked into her pockets. She seemed to possess a strange, calming aura. Wherever she stood, a sense of peace settled over the space. It was true at home, and it was true here. The noisy lobby seemed to quiet down, all eyes drawn to her. For a disorienting moment, I felt a wave of distant, hazy familiarity wash over me. I stood up and walked toward her. The first words out of my mouth were, "You can wear heels?" She blinked, clearly not expecting the question. "Yes." "I've never seen you wear them before." A slight frown creased her brow. "I have something on today." I wanted to ask what, but Isabella walked over just then. Her eyes widened for a second when she saw Christine, but she quickly composed herself and smiled. "Christine. I hope you don't mind me being here." Christine looked at her for a few seconds, then the corners of her lips curved upwards. "Not anymore." Hearing that, a strange irritation pricked at me. "This is a public place," I said harshly. "Don't start crying and making a scene like you used to." I wasn't being unfair. During the two-year-long ordeal of our separation, she had cried and screamed. More often, she would just stare at me with red-rimmed eyes, murmuring things that made no sense. "Ethan, you do love me. You just don't remember." "Ethan, what am I going to do with you?" "Ethan, I can't hold on much longer. Please don't blame me..." We had loved each other once, deeply. But I had changed. Towards the end, my patience had worn thin. "Christine," I'd told her, "the past is the past. People change. You have to accept it." Now, Christine just lowered her gaze and smiled faintly. "Let's go sign the papers." The process was smooth. The clerk informed us there was a one-month cooling-off period before the divorce would be final. As we stepped out of the courthouse, Isabella gathered her courage. "I came today because I wanted to say I'm sorry," she said earnestly to Christine. "What happened with Ethan and me... I guess some things are just fated." Christine smiled and glanced at the designer handbag on Isabella's arm. "Are you sure you didn't just come to show me that bag?" The two women stood in silence, the autumn leaves swirling around them. Then Isabella smiled back. I had no idea what they were talking about. I looked closer at the bag. A silk scarf was tied around the handle. It looked familiar... Then it hit me. I had bought that bag for Isabella six months ago. It was obscenely expensive, worth more than some people's cars. As Isabella was kissing me in thanks, Christine had called, her soft voice reminding me it was her birthday and that she was waiting for me to come home for dinner. A pang of guilt had struck me, but Isabella, ever so magnanimous, had urged me to go. "A friendly divorce is better for the company's IPO," she'd said. "Don't be stubborn." She had smiled and untied a silk scarf from the bag's handle. "This brand's scarves aren't cheap either. Take this for her birthday present. It'll save you a trip. I'll just get another one from the store later." I remember Christine had been so happy with the scarf, her eyes like a doe's as she tried it on this way and that. And now, her gaze swept coolly over the new scarf on that very same bag, then drifted away without a trace of emotion. 6 I didn't know what was wrong with me. Ever since Christine agreed to the divorce, forgotten moments and overlooked details kept surfacing, unbidden. I told myself it was just nostalgia, my brain's way of severing ties with the past. I took Isabella to meet my parents. She put on her most humble demeanor, bearing expensive gifts, but my parents were cold and distant. They had always been vehemently against the divorce. During our worst argument about it, my father had pointed at me, his voice trembling with rage. "You goddamn fool! You’re throwing away something you nearly died for! Do you have any idea what she gave up for you? One day, you'll regret this!" "Stop it!" my mother had shrieked, cutting him off. "Do you want him to go back to how he was before...?" Isabella was hurt. She cried in the car on the way home. "The one marrying you is me, not my family," I comforted her. "Don't let it get to you." She quickly pulled herself together. "Your mom said she didn't want you to go back to how you were before... what did she mean?" I laughed. "You probably can't imagine it, but I used to be a real handful. Drinking, fighting... I did it all. Got my head smashed in a brawl once, was in a coma for a while. Ever since, I get these splitting headaches when I get too worked up. They're probably just worried about that." That night, to cheer Isabella up, I took her to a new bar. It was an elegant place with a traditional theme. The air was filled with the sound of classical music, and all eyes were on the woman on stage. She wore a stunning, form-fitting cheongsam, her body poised and graceful. She held a pipa, her head tilted slightly, her long hair obscuring her face. As her fingers danced over the strings, a melody flowed out, as clear and beautiful as a mountain spring. I stared, transfixed. That same distant, hazy feeling washed over me again, a thousand tiny needles pricking at my heart. Isabella chuckled, leaning close to my ear. "You really fell for me at that company retreat, didn't you?" I snapped out of my trance and smiled. "You saw right through me." She rested her head on my shoulder, her voice full of sweet nostalgia. "I wore a cheongsam and played the pipa for the talent show that night. It was just a recording, but the way you looked at me then... it's the same way you're looking at the stage now." The piece ended. The woman on stage rose gracefully, smiled at the audience, and walked off. I felt a jolt. Beside me, Isabella murmured, "She kind of looks like Christine..." I shook my head, a small laugh escaping me. "A little, maybe. But Christine doesn't know how to play any of that stuff." My phone rang. It was my younger brother, Owen, calling from France. I stepped into the hallway to take the call. His voice was unusually serious. "Did you really divorce Christine?" "What do you mean, Christine?" I snapped, annoyed. "Call her your sister-in-law." The words were out before I could stop them. I paused. "The process has started." Owen was silent for a moment. "I'm coming back next month." "You just landed a major investment. What are you coming back for?" "For Christine." I was speechless. I couldn't understand why my own family was so fiercely protective of her. Annoyed, I went to the window and lit a cigarette. Through the cool night air, I heard voices from outside. "I can't believe it. You haven't played in years, but you've still got the touch of a gold medalist." A gentle female voice replied, "Thank you for the opportunity to perform, Mr. Chen." "With a reaction like that from the crowd, I should be thanking you!" I followed the voices with my eyes. Two figures were walking away. One of them was the woman in the cheongsam. As the wind blew, her hair swept back from her face. And I saw her profile. 7 I pushed open the side door and stepped outside almost without thinking. The woman smiled as she said her goodbyes, then wrapped her coat tighter around herself and walked alone into the night. The sharp, rhythmic click of her heels on the stone path echoed in the autumn silence. I followed her at a distance. The cigarette burned down to my fingers. I yelped, dropping it to the ground. The woman turned around. When I saw her face clearly, I froze. "It's really you?" Christine squinted at me through the dim light. "Ethan? What are you doing here?" I was at a loss for words. What was I doing here? Why had I followed her? In that split second, my mind had been blank. It was as if my body had made the decision before my brain could catch up. "Ethan!" Isabella's voice came from behind me. "I was looking all over for you. So you were—" She saw Christine. She stopped, her eyes widening in disbelief, mirroring the question in my own heart. "That was you on stage? You can play the pipa? Or was that just... part of a performance?" Christine let out a soft laugh, not answering her question. Her gaze drifted coolly over the two of us, and then she turned and walked away. The car ride back was thick with a heavy silence. Suddenly, Isabella turned to me. "What were you doing out there? Did you recognize her all along? I thought you said she didn't know how to play." "I didn't know," I said, my eyes fixed on the road. "She never played for me." "You were married for seven years and she never once played for you? How is that possible...?" Isabella's expression was strange. She gave a short, sharp laugh. "She's really changed. The makeup, the heels... she's a completely different person. She's probably already found her next guy. I knew it was too easy when she agreed to the divorce—" I slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, throwing Isabella forward against her seatbelt with a cry of alarm. I turned to her, my voice low and dangerous. "What are you talking about? Christine is not that kind of person!" Isabella rubbed her shoulder where the seatbelt had dug in, staring at me in shock. Then, her voice rose in anger. "Right, she's not that kind of person, but I am! I'm the one who threw herself at you, who was happy to be your mistress! I'm the despicable, immoral one!" I scowled. "You don't have to talk about yourself like that." Her eyes were red, her emotions spilling over. "I've always been a proud woman, Ethan. I have my pride, my self-respect! If it wasn't for you, for this relationship, why would I have ever put myself in this situation...?" Her voice broke on a sob. I fell silent, letting out a long sigh. "I know what you've sacrificed. Let's just... we've come so far. Let's not fight about things that don't matter, okay?" She bit her lip, finally nodding with a quiet "mhm." That night, she wore a new piece of lingerie she'd bought, her movements a mixture of contrition and seduction as she leaned over me. After a long while, I pulled away. "I'm sorry," I said, frustrated. She looked up, her eyes shining in the darkness. She stroked my cheek, her voice gentle. "It's okay. You've been under a lot of stress lately. I'll get some herbal remedies tomorrow to help you relax." I numbly got dressed and told her I was going to the balcony for a smoke. The world outside was silent. As the smoke curled around me, a thought took root in my mind, one I couldn't shake: There was a side to Christine I had never seen.
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