Part 3

"I thought it was better this way."

She stepped backward.

"Better for whom?"

I couldn't look at her.

She pressed one trembling hand against her stomach.

Only then did I notice how pale she had become.

"Please tell me you're lying."

"I'm not."

A tear slipped down her cheek.

"You let me hate myself."

Those six words silenced me.

Claire looked toward the blue folder.

For a moment, I thought she was going to open it.

Instead, she picked it up and held it against her chest.

Then she reached for the divorce papers.

"Give me a pen."

I stared at her.

"Claire, we don't have to finish everything tonight."

"Give me a pen, Alexander."

I handed her one.

She read through the documents slowly, page after page, occasionally pausing to steady her breathing.

When she reached the final page, she signed her name.

Claire Moretti.

Then she placed the pen on the table.

"Your money will be returned."

I frowned.

"What?"

"Every dollar."

"That's ridiculous."

She took out her phone.

A few minutes later, she showed me the confirmation of a transfer back to the account from which the settlement had originated.

"You'll need that money," I said.

She looked at me with an expression I still see in my nightmares.

"I would rather start over with nothing than live on the price you put on our marriage."

I watched her walk upstairs.

She returned carrying one suitcase.

No jewelry case.

No expensive handbags.

No collection of designer clothing.

Just an old suitcase she had owned before we met.

At the front door, she stopped.

I thought she might ask me to reconsider.

Instead, she looked down at the blue folder in her hand.

"There's something I came home to tell you today."

My chest tightened.

"What?"

She opened her mouth, but her expression suddenly hardened.

"Never mind."

"Claire, what were you going to say?"

She shook her head.

"You made your choice."

Then she stepped toward the door.

"Remember this day, Alexander, because one day you're going to regret it for the rest of your life."

I watched her leave.

The door closed softly behind her.

And on the coffee table, beneath the divorce papers, lay a small white envelope that had slipped unnoticed from her folder.

I picked it up.

A medical clinic's name was printed across the front.

Before I could open it, my phone rang.

Sophia's name appeared on the screen.

I answered.

And I placed the envelope inside my desk drawer, where it would remain unopened for three years.

PART 2: The Photograph That Destroyed My Peace

Three years after Claire walked out of my life, I opened the drawer in my study and found the white envelope I had forgotten on the night our marriage ended.

For a long time, I simply stared at it.

The paper had yellowed slightly around the edges.

The name of a women's medical clinic was printed in the upper corner.

I remembered picking it up after Claire left.

I remembered Sophia calling.

And I remembered deciding that whatever the envelope contained was no longer my concern.

That decision suddenly seemed difficult to understand.

I had spent three years building an even larger empire, but almost nothing about my personal life had turned out the way I expected.

Sophia and I had tried to establish a relationship after my divorce.

At first, everything felt exciting.

We traveled to Paris, attended exclusive parties, and spent weekends aboard my yacht.

She never asked about having children.

She never questioned my long working hours.

She understood my ambition and admired the power that accompanied it.

For several months, I believed I'd made the right decision.

Then something strange happened.

I began missing the ordinary things Claire used to do.

I missed hearing her sing while arranging flowers.

I missed her reminding me to eat lunch.

I missed the way she brought an extra blanket into the living room whenever she thought I looked cold.

Sophia admired the mansion.

Claire had made it feel alive.

The difference became impossible to ignore.

One evening, Sophia complained that the dining room looked outdated.

"We should replace everything."

I looked toward the large windows.

Claire had chosen the curtains herself.

"Why?"

"Because the place still looks like your ex-wife decorated it."

I said nothing.

Sophia sighed.

"Alexander, she's gone."

I knew that.

I had made certain of it.

But the statement bothered me more than it should have.

Eventually, Sophia grew frustrated with my emotional distance.

She accused me of keeping memories of Claire hidden throughout the house.

Perhaps she was right.

We separated quietly after eighteen months.

There were no dramatic arguments.

No public scandal.

No desperate attempts at reconciliation.

She simply left one morning, and I returned to the same empty mansion I had once been desperate to reclaim.

After that, I buried myself in business.

I acquired two hotel chains, expanded my transportation company, and purchased a historic office building overlooking the Chicago River.

Financial magazines celebrated my success.

My employees congratulated me.

My competitors watched nervously.

But every evening, I returned to a house where nobody waited for me.

I began spending more time in my study because it was the only room that didn't remind me so strongly of Claire.

That was where I found the envelope.

I turned it over.

The seal had never been broken.

I reached for a letter opener.

Then I stopped.

Whatever the clinic had told Claire belonged to her.

I had no right to discover it by opening her private medical correspondence.

I placed it carefully on the desk.

For several minutes, I stared at the fireplace.

Then I remembered the last words she had spoken to me.

"One day you're going to regret it for the rest of your life."

At the time, I believed she was trying to hurt me.

Now, I wondered whether she had been trying to tell me something.

I picked up my phone and called my assistant.

"Daniel, I need you to find someone."

"Of course, Mr. Moretti."

"Claire."

Silence followed.

"Your former wife?"

"Yes."

"May I ask why?"

"Because I need to know whether she's all right."

Daniel hesitated.

"I can look into publicly available information."

"Do it."

After ending the call, I walked through the house.

Claire's favorite painting still hung above the staircase.

The kitchen windowsill still held the ceramic pots she had purchased during our honeymoon.