Chapter 3

"What the hell, Ethan? What are you doing!" Emma fought to sit up, only to be pushed back down by the weight of the man towering over her. He was built like a wall—how could someone as frail as her even budge him? "Let go of me! We're divorced!" "I haven’t signed anything yet. Didn’t you say you wanted to settle everything during the marriage? As your husband, I think we should clear things up—properly." The black mourning dress got yanked open, and there was no stopping him— "Let go! Ethan, it hurts!" Emma’s cries became breathless. Eventually, she stopped fighting. Slowly, her tense body softened. Her fingers wandered up his back, gently resting on his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around him, chest to chest, heart to heart. She thought, if someday Ethan could remember this rhythm, this heartbeat—maybe that would mean something. *** Eventually, Ethan pulled away. The sheets showed undeniable traces of what had happened. The lingering air was thick with desire and regret. He froze. Emma… she was actually a virgin? "I told you... nothing ever happened back then..." Emma pushed herself up, wiping the tears from her cheeks messily and dragging herself to the bathroom. She couldn't understand it—why did it take something like *that* for him to believe her? Wasn’t an explanation enough? The sound of running water snapped Ethan out of it. Staring at the bloodstains on the sheets, a wave of unease washed over him. If Emma really had been untouched until now… then that night at the hotel years ago— Maybe this was just another one of her tricks. Ethan had always been too proud to admit when he might’ve been wrong. Some women, in his eyes, just weren’t meant to be loved or cared for. He picked up his crumpled shirt, reached into the inside pocket, and pulled out a photo. Slowly, the anger in his eyes faded, and his voice dropped to a rarely heard softness. "Sophie... would you hate seeing me like this too?" Five years had passed, but Sophie Taylor's sweet face still lived vividly in his mind. Sometimes he’d just stare at her photo for hours, because the moment he closed his eyes—bang—the crash would replay, drowning everything in red. He still remembered her lifeless body lying cold in the morgue. The sheet over her couldn’t hide her pale, frozen skin or those forever-closed eyes. And these days, Ethan found himself wondering the same thing again—why had he married Emma in the first place? It wasn’t for politics, not for appearances. So… why? Maybe deep down, it was just this: if it couldn’t be Sophie, then it didn’t matter who it was. His phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket, the ringtone snapping him back. Glancing at the caller ID, he frowned and declined it without a second thought. Half a minute later, a message popped up. [Ethan, I’m home. Did you talk to her yet?] He stared at the screen, then looked over at the bathroom door—Emma’s small frame barely visible through the frosted glass. In his mind, her expression from earlier replayed on loop. Calm, determined, and distant—just like when she had signed the papers. [Not yet. She’s asleep. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.] He typed the text and hit send. His tone was flat, emotionless.