The Divorce He Asked For, The Empire I Took Away Chapter 01

The Divorce He Asked For, The Empire I Took Away Chapter 01

My best friend sent me a photograph from the beach.

My husband had one arm around her waist, and both of them were smiling.

The message from Vanessa Cole read: [Lydia, I’m sorry. I couldn’t control myself.]

I drew a slow breath and saved the photograph.

No blur. No crop. I posted it directly to Facebook for every mutual friend to see.

[Congratulations to my best friend on the promotion. You two can finally stop sneaking around.

@everyone, this man is officially secondhand merchandise. No returns or exchanges.]

Then I powered down my phone, removed the SIM card, and went to sleep.

When I turned it on the next morning, notifications flooded the screen.

I had 183 missed calls and more than ninety-nine unread texts.

******

The phone vibrated while I was folding laundry.

One of Marcus’s shirts had a lipstick mark near the collar. I rubbed it twice with my thumb, but the stain did not move.

The new message was from Vanessa.

I opened it and found one photograph.

It had been taken at the beach near sunset. Golden light fell across my husband, Marcus Reed, as he held Vanessa by the waist.

She leaned against his shoulder. They looked happy.

[Lydia, I’m sorry. I couldn’t control myself.]

I stared at the screen for about ten seconds. My fingers stayed steady, though my heartbeat quickened.

Vanessa had been my college roommate. After graduation, we settled in the same city, shared holidays, and met for dinner every few weeks.

She called me her sister. I helped her move three times, and when she was hospitalized, I stayed overnight beside her.

I knew her food preferences, her work frustrations, and the names of men she briefly dated.

Every holiday, she appeared at our table as naturally as family, and Marcus had never once objected to her presence.

Six years.

I enlarged the picture. Marcus wore the pale blue shirt he packed for his business trip the previous week.

He told me he was going to Albany.

The background behind him was the ocean at Montauk.

I saved the unedited file to my camera roll, opened Facebook, selected the image, and wrote the caption.

[Congratulations to my best friend on the promotion. You two don’t have to hide anymore.

For everyone’s information, this man is used goods now. No returns or exchanges.]

I posted it, shut down the phone, removed the SIM card, and placed it on the nightstand.

Then I pulled up the blanket and closed my eyes.

The photograph stayed in my mind. Marcus’s left hand was around her waist.

On our wedding day, that same hand had held mine as we entered the reception.

I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.

I did not cry. My chest only felt blocked, as though I had swallowed a solid piece of ice that refused to melt.

By the time the alarm rang, daylight had filled the room.

I sat up with a heavy head, replaced the SIM card, and pressed the power button.

Notifications began appearing one after another, then ten at once, then fifty.

Missed calls: 183.

Unread texts: 99+.

Messenger took more than ten seconds to load.

I leaned against the headboard and watched red numbers cover the screen. Marcus had called sixty-seven times, Vanessa forty-one, and my mother-in-law twenty-three.

The rest came from coworkers, friends, and contacts whose names I recognized but whose faces I could no longer remember.

Marcus’s earliest text had arrived at 10:03 p.m.

Marcus: [What did you post? Delete it now.]

10:07 p.m.: [Lydia Vaughn, are you deleting it or not?]

10:15 p.m.: [Answer your phone.]

10:40 p.m.: [What exactly do you want?]

11:20 p.m.: [We’ll discuss this when I get home.]

1:00 a.m.: [You’ve gone too far.]

The last message was timestamped 6:12 a.m.

Marcus: [I’m downstairs. Open the door.]

I dismissed his thread and played Vanessa’s first voice message.

The first message lasted seven seconds. She was sobbing. “Are you insane?

You ruined me!”

My mouth moved in something close to a smile.

Ruined her.

When she sent the photograph, she apparently had not considered what it would ruin in me.

Her second recording was twelve seconds long.

“Please delete the post. We can negotiate.

I’ll agree to anything.”

The third lasted five seconds. It said, “Lydia, what does ignoring my calls accomplish?”

The fourth arrived at two in the morning. Her voice had become hoarse.

“Doing this doesn’t help you, either.”

I listened to all nineteen recordings. Her emotions passed through four stages: crying, begging, panic, and hatred.

The doorbell rang.

Once. Twice.

On the third try, someone started pounding.

“Lydia, open the door.”

Marcus’s voice came through the wood. It was 6:40 a.m.

The bell rang again.

“I said open the door. Did you hear me?”

I put on slippers and walked to the entryway. Through the peephole, I saw him standing with his hair uncombed, a wrinkled shirt, and a suitcase.

He struck the door again. “If you don’t open it, I’m calling a locksmith.”

I unlocked it.

For a moment, Marcus seemed startled by how calm I looked. Then he came inside, dropped the suitcase, and slammed the door.

“Delete that Facebook post.”

I returned to the living room, sat down, and poured myself water.

“I told you to delete it!” he shouted, following me.

I drank, set down the glass, and looked at him.

“Why should I hide a photograph of you holding another woman?”