Adrian's POV
The pen slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the mahogany desk.
"Mr. Hayes, are you listening?" My lawyer, Richard, leaned forward with those papers—those divorce papers—spread out like a death sentence between us.
I stared at the dotted line where my signature should go. Just one name. Adrian Hayes. That's all it would take to end everything.
"I can't," I whispered.
Richard sighed, the kind of sigh that said he'd dealt with difficult clients before. "Adrian, your wife has made this easy for you. She's not asking for alimony. She's not fighting over assets. She just wants out. Most men would jump at—"
"I'm not most men."
"Clearly." Richard tapped the papers with his expensive pen. "Look, I've been your lawyer for five years. I've never seen you hesitate on anything. You built a tech company from nothing. You make million-dollar decisions before breakfast. But you can't sign a simple piece of paper?"
Simple. He called it simple.
My phone buzzed. Another text from Lily: Are you okay? Want to meet for lunch?
I turned the phone face-down without responding. Lily had been texting constantly since Maya left. Checking on me. Offering support. Being... there. The way she'd always been there, hovering at the edges of my life like a shadow I couldn't shake.
"What did Maya mean?" I asked suddenly.
Richard blinked. "Excuse me?"
"She said I could finally have what I always wanted. What does that mean?"
"I imagine she meant freedom," Richard said carefully. "Or perhaps she was referring to Ms. Chen."
Lily. Everyone thought I wanted Lily. My mother certainly did. My business partners made jokes about it at company dinners. Even Maya's family had whispered about the "other woman" at our wedding.
But I didn't want Lily. Did I?
"I need to think," I said, pushing back from the desk.
"Adrian, waiting won't change anything. Your wife clearly—"
"I said I need to think!" My voice came out harsher than intended. Richard flinched, and I immediately felt guilty. "Sorry. I just... I need time."
Richard gathered his papers with the tight-lipped expression of someone choosing not to argue. "Call me when you're ready. But don't wait too long. Maya could change her mind about being generous."
After he left, I sat alone in my office, staring at the city lights blinking outside. Generous. Was that what Maya was being? Or was she just tired? Tired of waiting for me to notice her. Tired of being second choice.
Second choice to what, though?
My phone rang. Mom.
"Adrian, darling, I heard the wonderful news!"
Wonderful. My marriage ending was wonderful.
"Richard's father plays golf with your uncle," Mom continued without waiting for my response. "He mentioned Maya finally came to her senses. This is perfect timing! Lily's parents are hosting a charity gala next month, and I already told them you'd attend. Together, you and Lily would make such an impression—"
"Mom, I haven't signed anything yet."
Silence. Then: "What do you mean you haven't signed? Adrian, this is your chance to fix your mistake."
"My mistake?"
"Marrying Maya in the first place!" Mom's voice rose. "I told you she wasn't right for our family. Too quiet. Too ordinary. Not ambitious. Lily is perfect for you. She understands your world. Her family's connections could—"
I hung up.
My hands were shaking. When had they started shaking?
I pulled up Maya's contact on my phone. Her profile picture was still from our wedding day. She was laughing at something off-camera, her eyes crinkled with genuine joy. When had I last made her laugh like that?
I couldn't remember.
My finger hovered over the call button. What would I even say? "Don't divorce me" sounded pathetic. "I need you" sounded desperate. "I think I made a mistake" sounded like too little, too late.
Instead, I opened my messages. The last text I'd sent her was three weeks ago: Working late. Don't wait up.
Her response: Okay.
That was it. That was how we'd communicated for months. Quick, functional messages about schedules and bills and nothing that mattered.
I scrolled up through our message history. More of the same. Until I reached messages from a year ago, when we'd still tried. When she'd sent me photos of dinners she'd cooked. When I'd sent her random thoughts throughout the day. When we'd used heart emojis without feeling stupid.
What happened to us?
I knew the answer, though. I happened. I got busy. I got distracted. I stopped trying because I assumed she'd always be there.
My office door burst open. Lily stood there, holding two coffee cups and wearing a concerned expression.
"Your assistant wasn't at her desk, so I just came in," she said, setting a cup in front of me. "You didn't answer my texts. I got worried."
"Lily, now isn't a good time."
"That's exactly why I'm here." She perched on the edge of my desk, too close. "Adrian, you've been through so much. You don't have to face this alone."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look terrible." She reached out to touch my face, and I jerked back.
"Don't."
Hurt flashed across her features. "Adrian, I'm just trying to help. I know this divorce is hard, but maybe it's for the best. Maya never really understood you. Not like I do."
"And how exactly do you understand me?"
The question came out cold, and Lily's eyes widened. "I... we've known each other since college. I've seen you at your best and worst. We have history."
"History isn't love, Lily."
"Who said anything about love?" But her voice was too high, too defensive.
I stood up, putting distance between us. "You need to leave."
"Adrian—"
"Leave. Please."
After she left, I sank back into my chair and buried my face in my hands. Everything was falling apart, and I didn't know how to stop it. Maybe I didn't deserve to stop it.
My phone buzzed again. A text from an unknown number: You should see this.
Below was a link to a photo. I clicked it without thinking.
The image loaded slowly, line by line. When I saw what it showed, my blood turned to ice.
It was Maya. At a restaurant. With a man. They were sitting close, and he was holding her hand across the table. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was the way she was smiling at him—that same joyful, crinkled-eye smile from our wedding photo.
The smile I hadn't seen in years.
The smile she was giving to someone else.
My phone slipped from my numb fingers. Another text arrived from the unknown number: Want to know who he is?
My heart hammered against my ribs. My hands were shaking again. The divorce papers sat on my desk, unsigned, mocking me.
I grabbed my phone and typed with trembling fingers: Who is he?
The response came immediately: Her new beginning. The question is—what are you going to do about it?