" I want a divorce "
I'd be lying if I say I didn't see that coming. As a matter of fact, it's even coming late but finally hearing it, breaks something in me.
I close the door gently behind me, set my bag down by the console like I've just returned from the store. Like he didn't just detonate the only thing we had left.
He's standing in the middle of the living room, arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable. Dan has never been good with confrontation. Even now, he can't hold my gaze for long.
I walk past him, head held high, toward the kitchen.The silence stretches thin.
" Don't you have anything to say?" He mutters behind me.
But I don't. Not yet.
There's an open bottle of wine on the counter. Red. Half full. Maybe he left it there. Maybe I did. I can't remember. I distract myself by pouring myself a glass from the wine. The sound of the liquid filling the glass is the only thing anchoring the room.
Dan speaks again, his voice firmer now , " You know why I'm doing this. You know why a divorce is our only solution."
My voice doesn't rise, but it cuts through the space between us. "Do I, though?"
I walk up to him, slow and deliberate,stopping just a few steps away, close enough to feel the tension, close enough to read the anger in his eyes.
"You know," I continue, my voice tight, "I don't know if this is really about the affair or if it's about the fact that you blame me for what happened to the baby."
He stiffens at that, his entire body going still like I struck a nerve. "You keep bringing up the baby," he mutters, like it's some offense.
"And you never bring up the baby," I snap back, the words sharp and loud, louder than I meant them to be.
He flinches, just a bit, but I see it. He didn't expect that
"You know what I think?" I say, and he glances at me again, barely. "I think it's easier for you to focus on the affair than to admit you failed me. That you failed us. Because if you talk about what really broke us, then you'd have to admit it didn't start with Alex."
His eyes flash, and this time he doesn't stay quiet. "You slept with my boss," he says, not shouting but biting the words, like they taste bitter in his mouth. "You let someone I have to see every day touch you, and you're standing here trying to make this about me."
"I'm not trying," I fire back. "It is about you. You disappeared, Dan. You left me alone with something too big to carry, and I broke. You think I woke up one day and decided to cheat? I was grieving. I was lonely. I felt invisible."
You think I wasn't grieving?" His voice cracks on the word, and he steps closer. "You think I didn't lie awake every night blaming myself? Wondering if I did something wrong? You weren't the only one who lost something."
"You never said a word."
"Because every time I looked at you, I saw everything I couldn't fix. I saw the pain, the blood, the silence in that hospital room. I didn't know how to touch you without reopening that wound."
My mouth opens, then closes. There it is. The first real thing he's said about it since it happened.
"I needed you," I say, quieter now. "I needed you to hold me, not disappear into work or sleep on the couch. I needed to hear that I wasn't crazy for falling apart."
"I didn't know how," he says again, and this time it sounds like a confession.
" I don't blame you, Ann…" he continues " I never blamed you. I blame myself "
I'm quiet. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I didn't expect that either.
He keeps going, not looking at me. "I should've driven that day. You were exhausted. I knew you were. I should've taken the damn car keys."
"It wasn't the drive that caused it," I say, stepping back slightly. "The doctor said…"
"I don't care what the doctor said," he snaps, and then closes his eyes, breathing heavily. "You walked into that emergency room alone, and I got there too late. I wasn't there when it happened. I wasn't there when they told you."
My grip tightens around the wine glass. "You weren't there after either. That's what I needed, Dan. Not a perfect version of you. Just a present one."
He finally looks at me then, eyes red, voice low. "I didn't know how to be present in that kind of pain. I didn't know how to hold someone without falling apart."
"And I didn't have the luxury to fall apart," I reply, barely above a whisper. "So I held myself. I carried it all. Alone."
We stare at each other across the short distance, too far to reach, too close to ignore.
"I didn't sleep with Alex because I stopped loving you," I say. "I did it because I couldn't recognize us anymore. Because I felt like I had already lost you."
Dan doesn't move. He's breathing hard now, like he's been running. Or maybe like something he buried a long time ago is starting to surface.
"You still have a choice," I add. "But if you really want a divorce, you'll have to be honest with yourself about why."
Dan takes a step forward, just slightly, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. I don't move. I just stand there, chest tight, trying not to cry, trying not to scream.
Neither of us moves, but the air feels thick, charged with everything we haven't said, everything we still feel but don't want to name. His hand brushes mine, faint, accidental—or maybe not. His eyes fall to my mouth, and for a second, I wonder if he's going to kiss me.
Whatever was building between us fizzles under the weight of everything we haven't said.
" I miss what we used to be," I whisper. It's barely a sound. Just breath and truth.
Dan closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, something in his face has softened. But it doesn't last.
"We can't go back," he says.
"I know."
We stay like that. Standing in the ruins of something that once meant everything.
Then it hits me.
It rises suddenly, heat crawling up my chest, a twist deep in my stomach. I take a sharp breath and step back, one hand flying to my mouth.
"Anna?" he says, confused.
"I…just…" I turn from him, stumbling out of the living room, down the hall, barely making it to the bathroom.
I drop to my knees and throw up. Violent. Loud. It doesn't stop right away. My body trembles with each wave.
He appears in the doorway, frozen for a second like he's not sure what to do.
"Annalise," he says again, more urgent now.
"Are you okay?"
I'm hunched over, one hand gripping the toilet, the other clinging to the edge of the sink like it's the only thing holding me up.
"I'm fine," I manage, my voice hoarse and thin.
"You're not fine. Jesus." He steps inside now, grabs a towel from the rack, wets it under the tap, and crouches beside me. He presses it to the back of my neck, tentative, like he's afraid I'll push him away.
"I said I'm okay," I repeat, though it doesn't sound convincing. Not even to me.
We sit in silence for a while. His hand still holding the towel against my skin, his face unreadable.
"You should lie down," he says eventually, standing. "I'll give you space."
He walks out of the bathroom but doesn't go far. I hear him pacing just outside the door, lingering, like part of him wants to stay.
When the nausea settles, I rinse my mouth and splash cold water on my face. I avoid the mirror. I'm not ready to look at myself right now.
Stepping back into the hallway, I find him standing there, arms folded, leaning against the wall. His eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us speaks.
"I'm not going to beg you to stay," I say quietly. Not out of pride, just exhaustion. "If you want to leave, you can."
His expression doesn't shift much, but something in his posture softens. "You sure you're okay?"
"I'm sure."
A beat of silence. Then he nods.
"Come on," he says, tilting his head toward the bedroom. "You should lie down."
I follow without arguing. My limbs feel heavy, my mind even heavier.
When we get to the room, he pulls back the sheets like he used to do when I'd fall asleep on the couch during movies we never finished. I slip under them without a word.
He stands over me for a moment, unsure.
"Thanks," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He gives a small nod, like that's all he can offer.
Then he turns and walks toward the door.
Right before he leaves, he pauses.
"I'll have my lawyer send over the papers," he says, his voice steady again.
And then he's gone.
The front door clicks shut, and I stare at the ceiling in the quiet that follows.
It's done.
Almost.