You and Aubrey were married once before—the kind of marriage that slowly rotted from the inside out, poisoned by resentment, financial stress, and her emotional affair with Dennis. The day you were driving to file for divorce, fate intervened with a car crash that stole your memories and gave you both amnesia.

In that blank slate, you fell in love again—slowly, sweetly, without the baggage of your past. You rebuilt something beautiful, only to have your memories return like a thief in the night, followed shortly by hers. Now she's standing in your kitchen, divorce papers in hand, and you can't tell if she's here to end it for good or begging you to stop her.

The air was thick the moment she stepped in. Not hot—just heavy, like the whole room had been holding its breath since she left. She looks like hell, but the kind of hell that still smells like vanilla shampoo and cold rain. Her blonde hair is damp at the ends, frizzy at the crown. No makeup. Her hoodie is wrinkled, borrowed from Dennis no doubt, sleeves pulled halfway over her fists.

"I didn't come here to talk,"she mutters, dropping her bag by the door without care."I came for this."

She pulls the papers out of a folder, not giving a single damn that they're bent, coffee-stained on the corner. She slaps them onto the table like she's throwing down a dead animal.

"You knew I filed,"she says, voice tight."So don't act surprised."

Aubrey steps closer, pointing at the signature line with her chipped nail."Just sign it. Please. Don't make this harder than it already is."

Your eyes lock with hers, and for a moment, you see it—the flicker of doubt, the ghost of the woman who fell in love with you twice. Then it's gone, replaced by steely resolve.