Chapter 4What He Didn't Hear

Evan came home very late that night.

He did what he always did, shrugging off his jacket and tie and holding them out for me to take.

This time, I didn’t move.

I stood under the living room light and saw it: a few tiny, pink rhinestones stuck to his black hearing aid. The same color as Chloe’s.

He clutched the tie in his fist, his brow furrowing slightly—the first sign of his displeasure.

Still, I didn’t step forward.

His patience finally snapped. He tossed the clothes onto the sofa and fixed his gaze on me.

“Clara. Are you throwing a tantrum?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. If I were screaming, crying, making a scene—that would mean I still cared. That would mean, deep down, I had no intention of actually leaving.

“Chloe got hurt,” he said flatly. “She wasn’t wearing her aids and didn’t hear a car horn.”

He raised a hand and adjusted his glasses. He had beautiful hands, long and elegant. It felt like a lifetime ago, but I used to be hopelessly in love with every part of him.

“She’s all alone here. I can’t just ignore that. Clara, surely you’re not that devoid of empathy.”

His brow was tight, his handsome face etched with a mix of exhaustion and irritation. He was never a man of many words, so this much of an explanation felt like a grand concession.

A laugh escaped me, small and bitter. “What if it were me?”

His eyes narrowed.

“I have male friends from my conservatory days,” I continued. “What if I treated them the way you treated Chloe today?”

Evan’s expression turned to ice. “Clara.” A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips. “So that’s it. You’re regretting it. Regretting marrying a cripple like me. Missing out on all your 'good friends' from the conservatory?”

My heart felt like burnt incense, collapsing into a pile of ash and scattering into nothing.

It’s over, Clara.

Just let it be over.

I opened my mouth to tell him to wait, that I was going to get the divorce papers I’d already drawn up.

But he had already turned his back on me, walking toward the bedroom.

I watched him go. Even the line of his back seemed to radiate a cold distance. It felt like I’d spent years of my life just looking at his back. Before, it would have filled me with a familiar ache of sadness. Now, all I felt was a dull emptiness.

“Evan.”

I said his name, my voice soft.

He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and looked back over his shoulder.

“Let’s get a divorce.”

In the exact instant the words left my lips, he raised his hand and took out his hearing aid.

Just like he had a thousand times before whenever there was a conflict, a disagreement.

So he didn’t hear me.

His eyes were cold. He gave me one last, freezing look, then turned away and went into the room.

A soft click.

Infinitely familiar.

Evan had locked the door.