Chapter 3My Ex Husband Begs For Scraps

The moment I shut the door, I threw up.

I retched violently, as if trying to expel three years of suppressed rage, self-pity, and bitterness along with the bile.

Spencer confronted me three days later.

He was wearing a brand-new, expensive navy suit, and his hair was slicked back, gleaming.

He didn't look at me. He stared at the framed family photo hanging on the wall—the one taken at my parents’ house after we had just moved in.

“Alice, we… we need to end this.”

“You’ve heard about Vanessa. She… she can open doors for me.”

“It’s not that I look down on you,” he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling and obscuring his face. “It’s that we want different things. I’m looking for the stars and the sea. You… you can only see the four walls of this kitchen.”

“Don’t worry,” he pulled a white envelope from his pocket. “Here is five hundred dollars. Consider it compensation. You can stay in the house for now, and then… then you can move out once I’m settled.”

Five hundred dollars.

Three years of my youth, my dignity, my entire life, valued at five hundred dollars.

I laughed.

“Spencer Ashworth, have you forgotten? This house was my parents’ inheritance. You are the one who needs to move out.”

He froze.

He had probably forgotten how he had stood on my doorstep all those years ago, a shy young man with a cheap duffel bag, saying, “Alice, I promise I’ll always take care of you.”

His face instantly flushed beet red.

“Alice! Don’t be difficult! You think you’re still some pristine maiden? You leave me, and who’s going to want a divorced woman like you?”

“I’m telling you, don’t try to cause a scene! If you go to the factory, or worse, the Foundation, I… I have ways of making sure you can’t get a job anywhere in this city!”

He slammed the envelope on the table and stormed out, the door shaking the entire house.

I looked at the five hundred dollars, slowly sank to the floor, and cried.

Not for him, but for the death of those three lost years.

The next day, I went to The Redwood Canning Facility.

In the packing room, my coworkers were looking at me strangely.

Patrice, my closest friend, pulled me aside.

“Alice, is it true? About Spencer…”

I nodded.

Patrice sighed: “I knew it! Yesterday, someone from the City Planning office came by. They were asking about you, dropping hints that you were… quote, ‘emotionally unstable’ and ‘a poor fit for a man of Mr. Ashworth’s caliber.’”

“They told the floor manager they were concerned you might hurt the plant’s reputation!”

A cold numbness spread through me.

Spencer, you are truly ruthless. You didn’t just want my spot; you wanted to destroy my reputation and ensure I had no escape route.

I took a deep breath and walked to the manager’s office.

“Mr. Davis, I need to quit.”

He looked startled: “Alice, you’re one of our best. Why?”

“Family matters. I need to go back to my cousin’s farm for a while.”

He tried to argue, but I cut him off: “Please, just sign it. I don’t want to cause any trouble for the facility.”

He looked at me for a long time, then sighed and stamped the paper.

Holding the thin piece of termination paper, I walked out of The Redwood Canning Facility.