I Saw Two Faces in My Husband’s Heart Chapter 08

I Saw Two Faces in My Husband’s Heart Chapter 08

He finally executed the divorce agreement.

He had attached a stipulation offering a lump-sum transfer of five million dollars as a form of settlement for

our past years, but I refused to take a single dime. In response, his legal counsel reached out with a final

request: a three-month delay before processing the final decree, during which he intended to court me again

from scratch.

Samantha relayed the terms over the phone, her voice filled with a complex mix of irritation and disbelief.

“He told Christian that he owes you a proper courtship. He said you spent your entire life pursuing him from

the age of seven to twenty-eight, and now it’s his turn to pursue you.”

“He can do whatever he likes,” I replied, adjusting my sketches.

The flowers arrived the very next morning. A massive arrangement of long-stemmed red roses blocked the

entrance to my design studio. The enclosed card simply read: [Day One.]

I instructed the receptionist to return them to the courier immediately.

By the third day, the arrangements kept coming. The front desk called my office, entirely flustered. “Chris, the

courier refuses to take them back because Mr. Vance’s office already paid the premium. What should we do

with them?”

“Take them down to the boutique florist next door,” I said.

On the fourth day, the receptionist buzzed me with a dry laugh. “The florist next door asked me to pass along

their sincere thanks to your ex-husband. Apparently, their holiday sales are through the roof.”

Then, he transitioned to luxury goods. Premium leather bags were returned via overnight delivery. A delicate

platinum necklace, accompanied by a note reading To make up for our third anniversary, was sent back via

courier without the box ever being opened.

He sent a frantic text: [Can you at least look at it once? Just open the box.]

I left the message on read.

Eventually, he started showing up in person.

I was mid-meeting with a major corporate client discussing a brand identity relaunch when my assistant

slipped into the conference room. “Chris, an Ethan Vance is waiting in the reception lounge. He says he’s fine

with waiting until you’re clear.”

“Let him wait,” I murmured, turning back to the layout boards.

The strategy session ran from two in the afternoon until five. For three solid hours, he sat in the glass

reception area. My assistant offered him refreshments three times, but he didn’t touch a single glass. He

simply sat there, turning the pages of our studio’s design portfolio from the first project to the last.

Once the clients left, I walked out into the lounge. He stood up immediately, the lookbook still clutched in his

hands.

“I’ve never seen any of the work in this portfolio,” he said softly, his voice thick.

“Why are you here, Ethan?”

“I missed you.”

“Then you should leave.”

I turned and walked back into the secured studio space, the frosted glass door sliding shut between us. He stood on the other side for nearly five minutes, his silhouette cast against the glass, before his shadow finally disappeared.

When my shift ended at six, he was waiting by the elevator bank. “Chris, give me five minutes. Just five

minutes to explain.”

I didn’t stop my stride, bypassing the elevators entirely and pushing through the heavy fire door to the

stairwell. He followed close behind, abandoning the lift to shadow me down the concrete steps, level by

level.

“What do I have to do to make you look at me again?” he called out, his footsteps echoing in the enclosed

space.

I came to a halt on the landing of the third floor, turning around to face him from above.

“Ethan, do you actually remember the first time we held hands?”

He froze on the steps, a sudden, blank confusion flickering across his features. “We were seven… you tripped

on the playground near the school, and I helped you up.”

“No,” I said quietly, looking down at him. “The first time we held hands, we were five years old. We were

running through the community park trying to catch a white butterfly. You told me there were wild roses by

the fence, and you grabbed my hand to pull me along. We never caught the butterfly, but you didn’t let go of

my fingers until our parents called us for dinner.”

I let the silence hang between us for a moment.

“You see, you don’t remember any of these details, Ethan. But I do. I spent twenty years archiving every single

piece of our lives. I remember you cleaning a shell off a shrimp and putting it on my plate when you were

thirteen, refusing to eat a single one yourself until I was done. I remember you flushing bright red when you confessed you liked me on the bleachers at sixteen. I remember our first kiss under the maples behind the

old academy building at eighteen. And I remember your hands shaking so violently you could barely hold the ring when you asked me to marry you at twenty-two.”

I took a slow breath, my voice dropping. “I was the only one holding onto the memories, Ethan. You let them

go a long time ago.”

I pushed open the heavy exit door and stepped into the dim light of the underground parking garage. The

space was entirely silent except for the steady, rhythmic click of my heels against the concrete.

This time, his footsteps didn’t follow.

That night, my phone lit up with a succession of voice notes. I didn’t play a single one. At two in the morning,

a final text arrived: [I’m so sorry, Chris. I didn’t mean to forget. Please give me one chance to remember

everything we lost. I’m begging you.]

I stared at the glowing interface. His contact avatar was still our official wedding portrait-two people

smiling brightly against a backdrop of white roses.

I looked at it for three seconds, then smoothly swiped left and deleted the entire chat history.