The Ruins of Us

Chapter 15

I paced the edge of the hotel bed, phone pressed to my ear, teeth grinding against the inside of my cheek. The window was cracked open, letting in the morning breeze, but nothing about it felt fresh.

Mark's voice was calm, too calm. "So you still haven't received a signed copy?"

"No," I said flatly, turning to face the desk. "Because he won't sign it."

There was a pause. The kind that said he wasn't surprised.

"I gave him everything," I added, quieter now. "The house, the accounts, every last cent. I'm not asking for anything."

"And he's still refusing?"

"Yes. But I'm not letting this drag out, Mark. I told you—I wanted this clean. Quiet. I didn't want a war."

"And I respected that," he said. "But Mia, if he's refusing to cooperate, we'll have to escalate. File for judicial separation. Force proceedings."

"I know," I said, my voice tightening. "I'm giving him one last chance today. I'll talk to him."

"You really think that'll change anything?"

I let out a dry laugh. "No. But I need to say it."

I sat down on the edge of the bed, the line going quiet except for Mark's soft exhale.

"I tried to be decent about it. I tried to let him keep his dignity. I didn't want it to end cruelly, even after everything. But if he still refuses—if he keeps pretending this marriage exists when it doesn't—I'll stop being nice. He doesn't get to hold me hostage just because he regrets it now."

Mark was quiet for a beat.

"And if he pushes back again?"

"Then I push harder," I said. 

"I'll have the new paperwork ready."

"Good," I said. "Because after today, I'm done asking."

I hung up before he could say anything else, grabbed my keys, and slipped on my shoes. I didn't need time to think. I needed to move.

The car ride blurred. So did the streets. Every red light felt like a countdown to something I didn't want to admit I was scared of.

I told myself it was just a formality. That I'd go, say what needed to be said, and leave. I'd remind him what this was: over. I'd make it clear I wasn't playing tug-of-war with a man who didn't know how to let go.

Except... when I got there, the door was unlocked.

No guards. No alarms. No one waiting. Just silence and that strange, hollow scent that only lived in spaces once filled with something warm.

I stepped inside, cautiously at first, unsure if this was some kind of trap. But then I saw it—the trail of soft light coming in through the back glass doors.

I walked through the living room, past the couch we used to collapse on after long days, past the empty coffee mug still sitting where he always left it—and out onto the patio.

And then I stopped.

Kade was sitting by the pool. Not facing me. Legs bent, arms resting on his knees. All around him—sprawled across the tiles like a shrine—were our photographs.

Dozens of them.

Framed, loose, curled at the edges. Some I hadn't seen in years. Our wedding. His birthday. Sunday mornings in bed. Me asleep on his chest. Him laughing at something I'd said, eyes half-closed and so painfully alive.

He turned when he heard the door.

His face lit up.

Not in that smug, unreadable way he used to wear like armor.