His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 05

His Automated Reply Cost Him His Wife Chapter 05

Under the spotlight, the gala host handed the microphone to Ethan, his tone bordering on worship.

“Mr. Ward, as Miss Lena Price’s hero in that wildfire, do you feel this heavy responsibility has changed your life in some way?”

A kind, expectant hush fell over the audience.

Ethan took the microphone. His gaze didn’t find me. Instead, it traveled across the crowd and landed precisely on Lena. She wore a white dress and looked back at him with an expression of pure adoration.

“Yes,” Ethan said, his voice deep and magnetic as it carried through the ballroom. “It taught me what truly matters most in life.”

Thunderous applause followed.

I sat at my table in the corner, swirling the expensive Napa Valley Cabernet in my glass. The wine left dark red streaks along the sides, like dried blood.

He was right.

That wildfire had taught him what mattered most.

And it wasn’t me.

One of the gala organizers, a gallery owner I knew casually, leaned toward me. “Nora, this is… outrageous,” she whispered. “Do you need me to say something to Ethan? At least for appearances…”

I set down my wineglass, the base making almost no sound.

“No.” I gave her a calm, reassuring smile. “It’s fine.”

I pushed back my chair and picked up the trench coat draped over it.

“After tonight, he won’t be my husband anymore anyway.”

Without looking back, I walked toward the heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom. I could feel Ethan’s gaze on me, a tangible thorn piercing through the crowd and stabbing into my back until I disappeared. But he didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.

I called an Uber and went straight back to our house in Marin County.

I had just dragged the two suitcases I’d packed into the entryway when Ethan’s car crunched over the gravel driveway. He came in smelling of alcohol and the stale energy of the gala. When he saw the luggage, that familiar look of indulgent impatience crossed his face.

“You were unhappy tonight?” he asked, moving to pull me into his arms.

I stepped aside. “No,” I answered calmly.

“You’re lying.” He stated it as an unquestionable fact. “Nora, we’ve been married for years. I can read your every move.”

He yanked off his tie and threw himself onto the sofa, looking both tired and arrogant.

“Let me guess,” he said, using the same tone he reserved for difficult clients. “You’re angry because I put the spotlight on Lena and you felt neglected, right?”

I said nothing, just looked at him with cold, dead silence.

My silence irritated him, but he took it as confirmation.

“Listen, it was a charity event. I had to play the hero. You have to understand.” He sighed, adopting a conciliatory posture. “How about this? I’ll take a couple of days off. Next weekend, we’ll go to Napa to make it up to you. I’ll book your favorite suite at Auberge du Soleil. Sound good?”

I almost laughed. He was always like this, using money and luxury to measure, buy off, and dismiss any emotion he was too lazy to understand.

“Since you know me so well,” I said, a mocking smile playing on my lips, “keep guessing.”

Seeing me smile, he visibly relaxed, assuming this was just another little tiff he could easily manage. He thought this was about “dignity” and “the bigger picture.”

I didn’t bother giving him another chance. I turned, went upstairs, and locked myself in the bedroom.

The next morning, Ethan left early.

I didn’t need to ask where he was going. His social media told the whole story. Sure enough, at ten a.m., he posted a photo on Instagram, geotagged at a community center in Sausalito. In the picture, Lena leaned against him, giving the camera a fragile, grateful smile. The caption read: *Accompanying Lena to her survivor support group. Healing is a long journey.*

I looked at the photo and felt nothing.

Alone in the empty house, I slowly sealed the last cardboard box.

Then I went into the bedroom and took out the items I had prepared from the nightstand.

The divorce agreement drafted by my lawyer, already signed by me.

The discharge summary from UCSF Medical Center, documenting my emergency surgery for a ruptured ectopic pregnancy.

And the eighteen-dollar cubic zirconia ring I had worn for two months without him ever noticing.

I placed the three items side by side on his nightstand, weighing them down with the hardcover book on venture capital he’d been reading.

After that, I pulled my suitcase behind me and took one last look at the place I had once called home.

I locked the front door and got into the car waiting by the curb.

“SFO. International Terminal.”

The sky was gradually being swallowed by the Bay Area’s typical gloomy, rain-heavy clouds.

The plane taxied slowly down the runway as the flight attendants conducted their final safety checks. I fastened my seat belt and switched my phone to airplane mode.

Just before the screen went dark, it began vibrating wildly.

In an instant, blue iMessage bubbles bombarded the screen, one after another, exploding with a frantic, heart-tearing madness against my long-frozen heart.