"I know," I said. "Self-awareness has never been your strong suit."
The room went quiet except for the sound of Milo padding in, tail wagging like he could sense the drama.
He sniffed the air, then sat beside me.
"Good boy," I said, scratching his ear. "You want a pancake?"
Belinda glared.
"You're feeding the dog pancakes while we're having a serious conversation?"
"Technically, I'm having breakfast," I said. "You're having consequences."
Her face went red.
"I'll fight this. I'll get a lawyer."
"Oh, please do," I said cheerfully. "Mrs. Delgado loves a challenge. She's already color-coded your downfall."
She stormed toward the counter, grabbed her phone, and started furiously typing.
Probably texting Mr. Hairline and Heartache for sympathy.
I walked over, leaned against the doorway, and said, "By the way, your phone bill's due tomorrow. That's on you now, too."
She froze.
"You cut me off completely."
"Financial independence builds character."
She spun around, eyes wild.
"I have nowhere to go."
"Sure you do," I said. "You've got a boss who seems very accommodating."
The silence that followed was delicious.
You could have buttered it and served it with brunch.
She threw her phone onto the couch and screamed, "You humiliated me!"
I smiled.
"Not yet. I've been very discreet. But keep yelling. I'll upload the video to a private drive called Career-Limiting Moves."
Her shoulders slumped.
For the first time in weeks, she looked small.
Human.
Maybe even scared.
And I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a little.
I loved her once.
Deeply.
But the woman standing in front of me wasn't the one I married.
She'd traded vows for validation and integrity for instant gratification.
So no, I didn't feel guilty for letting her sit in the mess she made.
I took my plate to the sink, rinsed it, and said quietly, "You should start packing."
She blinked.
"You're kicking me out?"
"Consider it an early checkout," I said. "No refund."
"Oliver."
"Belinda," I interrupted. "I wish you luck. Truly. But you don't get to burn down the house and act surprised when the smoke alarm goes off."
She stood there shaking.
"You'll regret this."
I turned, leaning against the counter.
"I already regretted marrying you. This part's just damage control."
Her lip quivered.
"You're cold."
"I'm healed," I said simply.
For a long, quiet moment, she just stared at me.
Maybe waiting for me to crack.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
I'd already grieved the marriage.
This was the epilogue.
Finally, she grabbed her bag, muttered something under her breath, and stormed out.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle a frame on the wall.
The house fell silent again.
I exhaled, long and steady.