I muted it and looked at him. His face said everything.
“Yuna, I’m sorry. Something came up at the firm. A client’s demanding to meet today.”
And just like that, whatever love I had left for him? Gone.
I didn’t say a word. His jaw clenched. Light turned green. He drove.
Then I said, “Alright. Go.”
He pulled over.
“Yuna, call a ride, okay? I’ll try to make it back for dinner.”
I got out without a word.
Called a ride. Went to the amusement park alone.
While watching the parade, lost in the crowd, Phoebe texted:
[That girl’s in labor. Peter’s been with her the whole time.]
I typed back:
[Got it.]
I slipped out of the crowd and called Lionel Rinehart, the noise of the park buzzing around me.
“Hey, can you get your friend in Rivera to draft up a divorce agreement? And if he can, have it ready to file ASAP.”
There was a long pause. Then, “Yeah. I’ll have him reach out.”
When I got home, I opened the door to a floor covered in rose petals. On the table—wine, birthday cake, a bouquet.
But the house was quiet. Just the petals catching the last bit of sunset.
