Chapter 3Strangers in the Night Wind

They walked into the living room, and Claire’s face went white when she saw the knife in my hand. "Mia, what are you doing?"

Eric immediately stepped in front of her, his brow furrowed. "Let's just talk, okay? Don't scare Claire."

"Scare her?" I looked at her swollen belly, and the whole scene felt like a twisted, surreal nightmare. "Don't you think I'm the one who should be scared?" I turned my glare back to him. "Eric, tell me, in all these eight years, was there ever a single second you felt even a shred of guilt?"

He bit his lip, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm sorry…"

"And that's it? 'Sorry' makes it all go away?" I slammed the knife down on the coffee table. The sharp clang echoed in the tense silence. "I quit my job, threw away my future, and came back to build a home with you, only to find out you've been playing house with someone else for eight years! What did you take me for, Eric?"

Leo came running down the stairs, saw the knife, and burst into tears, throwing himself into Eric’s arms and crying for his mom. Eric hugged the boy, his back to me, his shoulders shaking as he gently patted his son's back.

Claire walked over and slid a document in front of me. "There's a saying, Mia. The one who isn't loved is the third wheel. This is a divorce agreement. Let's just end this gracefully."

I didn’t even glance at the papers. My eyes were fixed on Eric's back.

He never turned around.

So those nights that felt like a second honeymoon were just an act. That "can't wait" text was probably meant for Claire, sent to me by mistake.

I was a clown, performing in his twisted play for eight years, only realizing I'd been written out of the script when I finally pushed open the door myself.

The gift box I’d been holding had fallen to the floor at some point. The necklace inside had spilled out, its diamonds catching the light with a cold, indifferent sparkle. I had gone to three different jewelers to find it, a piece that was supposed to bring good luck.

I heard the sound of paper being ripped, followed by what sounded like a slap.

Then came Eric’s broken, desperate cry. "Who said anything about a divorce? Since when do you get to make decisions in this house?!"

He screamed my name, his voice thick with tears. I felt dazed, turning and walking toward the door, leaving the wreckage behind me.

Some debts can't be settled with a simple "I'm sorry."

And some homes, once shattered, can never be put back together.