I was discharged from the hospital a full day earlier than planned. The nurse smiled warmly as she handed me the papers.

“You’re healing faster than expected, Mr. Hayes,” she said softly.

I forced a polite smile, though my chest still ached from the procedure. Three nights surrounded by the steady beeping of machines, fluorescent lights that never dimmed and silence where Claire’s voice should’ve been. She never came. She’d said hospitals made her anxious, that she couldn’t stand the smell of disinfectant. I’d believed her. Or maybe I just wanted to.

The taxi ride home felt endless. The driver hummed quietly to the radio while I watched the city roll by, imagining the comfort of home which are the feel of my own sheets, the smell of Claire’s cooking and the warmth of her touch. I wanted to believe things would feel normal again.

But as soon as the car pulled into the driveway, that illusion cracked. Claire’s car was already there, parked haphazardly, crooked as if she’d stopped in a rush. That small detail sent a chill through me.

I paid the fare, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped inside. The house was dark except for a faint glow coming from upstairs. The silence was heavy and unnatural. I didn’t call out her name. Something deep down told me not to.

Each stair creaked under my weight, my pulse quickening with every step. The bedroom door was half open. Through the narrow gap, I experienced shadows moving. I pushed the door slightly, and there they were.

Claire. My wife. Entwined in the sheets with a man I’d never seen before.

Our bed. The one I thought I’d been combating to come home to.

On the nightstand, our wedding photo leaned to one side, its smiling faces mocking me. I stood there for what felt like forever ten seconds, maybe more watching in stunned silence. They didn’t even notice me.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t break anything. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain. I turned around, walked out quietly, and left without a word. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, my decision was made.

Every card was blocked. Every lock was changed. Every account was secured.

But that wasn’t the end.

The taxi was still waiting outside. I opened the door and got in. “Airport,” I said flatly.

The driver glanced at me in the mirror. “Airport? You just got home.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared out the window, my reflection blending with the passing lights. Claire. Her laughter.

That stranger’s hands. “Just drive,” I murmured.

Halfway there, I trasformed my mind. “Downtown instead. Matthews Law Office.”

Carl Matthews is an old friend. I’d fixed his computer once years ago, and he’d always said he owed me. Tonight, I planned to collect.

When I stepped into his office, Carl looked up, startled. “Tom? You’re supposed to be in recovery!”

“Plans changed,” I said simply.

He motioned for me to sit, and I told him everything. No shouting, no anger just the plain, ugly truth.

Carl leaned back, frowning. “You want a divor:ce?”

“Yes. But not just that.” I opened my bag and slid a folder across his desk.

Inside were property deeds, account statements, and a power of attorney Claire never updated after we married. She had no idea I’d restructured the business under a trust last year.

Carl flipped through the papers, his brows climbing higher. “You’ve already moved everything.”

“Everything,” I confirmed. “The company, the savings, the house. She thinks she owns half but she doesn’t.”

Carl gave a low whistle. “She won’t see this coming.”

“No,” I said, standing. “By the time she realizes it, I’ll already be gone.”

He looked at me, half impressed, half uneasy. “So… you’re going to war.”

I met his gaze evenly. “No,” I said. “I’m ending it.”