Chapter 21
Chapter 21:
The thing about starting over is that it sounds romantic until you’re actually doing it.
For the first three months at my new job, I worked harder than I’d ever worked in my life. I arrived early. Stayed late. Volunteered for projects no one else wanted. I learned new software, took online certifications, made myself indispensable.
It wasn’t about impressing anyone. It was about proving something to myself. That I could exist outside the context of Nathan Calloway. That I was more than someone’s wife, someone’s disappointment, someone’s second choice.
The promotions came. First a title bump, then a raise, then my own team to manage. My bosses started mentioning me in meetings. Clients requested me specifically.
My phone still buzzed occasionally with messages from unknown numbers. I deleted them without reading. Some habits are easier to break than others, and curiosity about Nathan’s misery wasn’t one I intended to indulge.
Years passed. Two, then three, then more. The sharp edges of the divorce softened into something that felt almost like ancient history—a story I could tell at dinner parties if the topic came up, which it rarely did. I dated. Traveled. Built friendships that weren’t mediated through my husband’s social circle.
And then one afternoon, walking through downtown Marsten Bay—the city I’d returned to for a conference, the city I’d once thought would be my forever home—I saw him.
He was standing on a street corner, dressed in a suit that had seen better days, holding a stack of pamphlets. Insurance sales, from the look of it. The kind of job you took when everything else had fallen through.
𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙘𝙠 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙘𝙚 𝙖𝙩
Our eyes met across the sidewalk.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. I watched recognition dawn across his face, followed by something I couldn’t quite identify. Hope? Shame? Some complicated mixture of both?
“Vivian.” He stepped forward, the pamphlets clutched against his chest like a shield. “I—wow. You look amazing p>
I did look amazing, actually. Three years of therapy, regular exercise, and a skincare routine I could finally afford had done wonders. But I didn’t say that.
“Nathan p>
“Can I—” He gestured toward a coffee shop across the street. “Just for a few minutes? I know I don’t have any right to ask, but p>
“I’m meeting someone p>
The words came out flat. Final. Not cruel, exactly, but not kind either.
His face fell. “Oh. Of course. I just p>
“A boyfriend.” I don’t know why I added that. Maybe some petty part of me wanted him to know. To understand that I hadn’t spent the last three years pining. “He doesn’t like waiting p>
Nathan nodded slowly. Something in his expression crumpled, like paper catching fire from the inside out.
“Vivian, I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve p>
“You’re right.” I cut him off before he could finish. “You don’t deserve forgiveness. The damage is done. But here’s the thing, Nathan—” I stepped closer, lowered my voice. “I don’t carry it anymore. I used to. I used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking about what you did, playing it over and over, wondering what I could have done differently. But now?” I shrugged. “Now you’re just… irrelevant. A footnote. Someone I used to know p>
His body trembled slightly. His shoulders hunched. And then—so quietly I almost missed it—he started to cry.
Not dramatic sobs. Just silent tears, tracking down his cheeks, his head bowed so passersby wouldn’t see.
Crocodile tears, I thought. Still performing. Still playing the victim.
I put on my sunglasses and walked past him without another word.
“You’re NEVER going to believe what I found p>
Harper slammed her laptop onto the café table the next morning, her face alight with the particular glow of someone about to deliver premium gossip. She’d always had a talent for digital archaeology—give her a name and a Wi-Fi connection, and she could unearth scandals buried deeper than Jimmy Hoffa.
“Good morning to you too,” I said, sliding her coffee across the table.
“Forget the coffee. Look at this p>
The screen showed what appeared to be a crowdsourced timeline—someone had made an actual presentation documenting the downfall of Nathan Calloway. Screenshots of social media posts. News articles. A dedicated hashtag: #MarstenBayTrash.
“Okay,” I admitted, “this is impressive p>
“It gets better. Scroll down p>
I scrolled. And the story unfolded like a Greek tragedy written by someone with a vindictive streak.