(07
Tristan couldn’t understand how everything had unraveled so quickly. How had his once–devoted wife- the woman who loved him as if her life depended on it–suddenly filed for divorce? And why had he, blinded by arrogance, forced alcohol on his pregnant wife… all because of a secretary? A crushing weight of guilt pressed on his chest, threatening to break his sanity.
When the operating room lights finally dimmed, I was wheeled into a private hospital room. Tristan followed closely behind, his face pale and drawn. The lawyer with the divorce agreement trailed after him. I lay unconscious on the hospital bed, still under the effects of anesthesia.
Tristan stood by my bedside, gripping the divorce papers with trembling hands. His lips moved in disbelief as he stared at the stark black letters.
“She wants to divorce me?” His voice cracked with incredulity.
8.55 AM
After Years, We Forget Each Other
me!”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” He shook his head furiously, rejecting reality. “There’s no way. No way she’ll leave
His denial shattered when a single tear slid down the corner of my eye. I stirred awake, my eyelids heavy but determined. Without sparing him a glance, I stared at the cold, sterile ceiling.
“Tristan,” I said flatly, my voice hoarse but steady. “Let’s get divorced.”
My tone was devoid of emotion, a simple statement of fact. “Spare yourself. Spare me.”
He flinched as though struck.
“I know you care for Zara,” I continued. “Go ahead and be with her. I’ll even wish you well–but I won’t walk away
empty–handed.”
“The agreement’s already prepared,” I added, my voice colder. “And yes, I’ve included compensation for the jewelry you gave Zara over the past five years. Fair’s fair. If you think it’s excessive, feel free to take it to court.”
His jaw clenched, his eyes filled with turmoil and defiance. Before he could lash out, Marco burst into the room
and yanked him by the arm.
“What are you doing?” Tristan barked. “Didn’t you hear her? She wants a divorce!”
“I heard,” Marco replied flatly. “So what? What are you still trying to prove by staying here?”
He glared at him with biting disdain.
“That you didn’t cheat on her? That you never changed your mind? Or are you trying to claim the three
miscarriages weren’t your fault–and that you didn’t force the wine on her this time?”
Tristan’s body sagged under the weight of those accusations. His legs nearly gave out. His shaking hand fumbled for a cigarette, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t light it. Marco let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“Tristan, I’ve already said everything that needed saying. You wronged Linda enough over these five years. She’s
only asking for what she deserves. What right do you have to fight her on this?”
His voice dropped to a bitter edge.
“You call me your brother, but let me tell you this as an outsider–without Linda, there wouldn’t be a you today.”
Marco’s words struck deep.
“You think your success was all your doing? That’s a joke. Linda worked herself to the bone for your career. She built connections behind the scenes, pulled strings and paved every step of the way for you.”
“Do you know how many times she took stomach medication to keep going? Perforations, ulcers–you name it. She never once complained. She even had me hide it from you because she didn’t want you to worry.”
“But look at you now. Look at what you’ve become,” Marco said harshly. “You don’t deserve her.”
The relentless truths shredded the last of Tristan’s defenses. He slumped against the wall, unable to process the weight of his failures. It turned out his success had never been about his own brilliance. It was Linda who had sacrificed everything she had to clear his path. And what had he done in return? Betrayed her.
The guilt clawed at him mercilessly, pressing down like a thousand–pound weight. His grip tightened around the surgical order for the miscarriage, the paper feeling heavier than stone in his hand. Seeing that Tristan had fin sobered up, Marco spared him one last glance.
“She deserves better,” he said simply. “Think about that.”
With that, he walked out, leaving Tristan alone in the corridor, drowning in regret.
Desperate, Tristan pulled out his phone and opened our message thread. The screen was filled with one–sided
texts from me.
[Coming home tonight? Don’t drink too much at the meeting.]
[I made your favorite ribs. Come back and try them?]
8:55 AM
After Years, We Forget Each Other
His hand shook as he stared at the words, guilt stabbing through his chest like a knife. Those simple, loving messages were a stark reminder of what he had lost–and what he could never get back.
