The ink on the divorce papers was still damp when I packed the last box. Four years reduced to two signatures and a cold note: I’m sorry. It’s better this way. Better for whom? I stared at the photo tucked beneath the stack—our wedding day, hidden in a mountain villa, snow falling like blessings. I wore white. He called me his wife. Now, his first love was back, draped in sympathy and silk, and I was the scandal they needed to erase.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. A single message: They lied to you. About everything. Attached was a blurred screenshot of a bank transfer—from his mother’s account to someone I’d never heard of, dated weeks before the divorce. My hands shook. This wasn’t about love returning. This was a setup.

Before I could react, headlights cut through my apartment window. His car idled at the curb. He got out—tall, disheveled, eyes searching my balcony. He hadn’t come here in months. Not since he left. Now he stood below, looking up, like I was the ghost.