Chapter 3Withdrawal Syndrome

"I have to go out. You should get some sleep."

Vaughn's words pulled me from my reverie. He stood and walked towards the door, his voice softening as he spoke into his phone. "Don't be scared, I'm on my way. They won't touch you... Yeah, lock the door. I'll be there soon."

I stood up too. "You're leaving? It's so late."

He barely paused. "Something came up. I'll be back late."

As he reached the door, I called his name again.

He turned, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "What is it now?"

"Vaughn," I said, my voice unnervingly calm. "Let's get a divorce."

Instantly, his eyes blazed with anger. He fought to keep his voice level. "What are you trying to pull now?"

"Mia was scared tonight," he said, as if explaining to a child. "She has no one here. She had to call me."

I stared at him, my gaze unwavering. "And 'helping' means showing up at the lounge she works at every night to play her knight in shining armor? The great Vaughn Vance, getting into a brawl at a police precinct over a waitress. Is that your idea of 'helping'?"

His lips thinned into a blade. His dark eyes held a dangerous warning. "I will get to the bottom of what happened tonight," he said, his voice like ice. He paused, adding, "And it had better have nothing to do with you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. A cold shock coursed through me. In the three years of our marriage, Vaughn had never been truly angry with me. For a while, I'd allowed myself to believe he'd moved on from Mia, that he was ready to build a life with me.

How foolish I'd been. It was all a fantasy.

I remembered the portrait. For a while, a painting of Mia hung in his study. He'd painted it himself and made no effort to hide it from anyone, including his family. His grandfather had thrown a monumental fit, which ended with our wedding portrait being hung in its place. The painting of Mia was locked away in a cabinet.

Now I understood. He hadn't surrendered. He was just fighting a silent, private war against all of us.

Outside, the wind howled. A draft slipped in from the open balcony door in the dining room, and I shivered.

Just then, a shrill, piercing scream erupted from Vaughn’s phone.

In an instant, the cold fury in his eyes shattered, replaced by raw, primal fear. He was already moving, a blur of panicked motion towards the door. "Mia, don't be afraid! I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't you dare open the door for anyone—"

His voice was cut off as he slammed the door behind him. The click of the latch was a final, deafening sound, sealing all his tenderness away from me.

That night, Vaughn didn't come back.

I sat alone on the sofa until the sun came up.

As the city awoke, two messages appeared on my phone.

The first was a photo: Vaughn and Mia, walking side-by-side into a hotel.

The second was a single sentence: Divorce him. Choose me?

I scrolled up to see three older, unread messages from the same number:

Eleanor, I'm back.

I'm here if you need me. Always.

Do you really love him that much? Could you try loving me instead?

I blinked, my eyes stinging, and typed back a single word: Okay.