Chapter 1

The day my wife divorced me for the ninth time, she attended a charity gala with her new assistant, making quite the public statement.

I didn't make a scene. I just looked at that man's face—it was identical to mine before the car accident.

But I knew that in thirty days, she'd come back to remarry me. That's how it went the previous eight times.

The first time, his eyes resembled mine.

The second time, his mouth.

The third time, his nose...

The ninth time, his entire face looked like mine.

But today is the thirty-second day.

For the first time, she hasn't come back.

I stare at my face in the mirror, destroyed by hormone medication.

It's fine. This time, I'm not waiting anymore.

The invitation to the charity gala was delivered by her assistant.

That assistant stood at my door, wearing the suit brand I used to love, carrying the same cologne scent I used to wear.

When he handed me the invitation, he deliberately used his left hand.

Because he knew my wife liked left-handed men.

Three years ago, I was left-handed.

"Mr. Cavanaugh, Miss Bernard asked me to give you this."

He smiled, revealing a row of perfect teeth.

That smile curved exactly like mine did in photos from three years ago.

I took the invitation. "Got it."

I closed the door and tossed the invitation on the shoe cabinet.

The invitation featured a photo of her with her assistant. She wore a black dress, he stood beside her, their faces close together.

The caption read: Miss Bernard and her assistant attending the annual charity gala.

With her assistant.

She used to attend all those business dinners with me.

I flipped the invitation over and left it face-down on the table.

It's fine. I'm used to it by now.

Today is the thirty-second day. After the previous eight divorces, she always came back to remarry within thirty days. This time she hasn't.

I picked up my phone and sent my mom a message: "Mom, book me a flight back to New York for tonight."

"How many tickets?"

"One."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What about her?"

I stared at that word "her" on the screen, then replied: "Not waiting for her anymore."

Then I turned off my phone, walked into the bedroom, and opened the closet.

Her clothes took up most of the space. Mine occupied a small corner.

I pulled out my clothes and packed them in a suitcase. Not much—just a few changes of clothes.

Before leaving, I placed something on the coffee table: an agreement, the ninth divorce agreement.

She'd already signed it. She signed it quickly that day without even looking.

She didn't know this agreement contained a gift contract tucked inside. I'd transferred our only property—the big house—into her name.

There was nothing to fight over. She bought the house. She bought the car.

The only thing I ever had of value was her love.

Now that the love is gone, it's time to leave.

At seven that evening, I still went to the gala.

Not to say goodbye, but to confirm something.

I stood at the entrance to the ballroom and spotted her immediately.

She wore that black evening gown, her hair pulled up, wearing the necklace from our wedding day around her neck.

That necklace—I'd saved up six months of wages to buy it during our first marriage.

She wore that necklace while holding another man's arm.

She saw me. Her gaze paused on me for a second.

Then she turned her head and reached up to adjust her assistant's tie.

That gesture—I'd taught her that.

The year we got married, she tried tying a tie for the first time and couldn't get it right.

I held her hands and taught her step by step.

She learned, and then every morning for three years, she tied my tie.

Now she was tying another man's tie.

Her fingers moved with the same motions, even more practiced now. Then she took her assistant's arm and walked toward me.

"You came." She smiled.

"Yeah."

"This is Diego, my new assistant."

I looked at the man. He extended his hand.

"Hello, Mr. Cavanaugh."

I looked at that hand but didn't shake it.

I turned to her. "Today is the thirty-second day."

Her smile froze for an instant, then returned to normal.

"I know."

"You're not planning to come back."

She didn't answer.

The assistant spoke up: "Miss Bernard, let's go over there. Rafael is waiting for us."

She nodded. "Alright." Then she patted her assistant's arm. "Let's go."

She didn't look at me.

As she passed by, she still wore that same perfume.

The first time I met her, she wore this scent. She'd never changed it in all these years.

But now, this scent no longer belonged to me.

I turned to watch her retreating figure.

She walked into the crowd holding that man who looked ninety percent like me, her steps steady, never looking back.

"Bernard." I called her name.

She stopped and turned to look at me.

The entire ballroom went quiet for a moment. Everyone looked at us.

She froze. This was the first time I'd called her like this in public.

I used to call her "honey." Later, I called her "Miss Bernard."

Today was the first time I called her by her full name in front of everyone.

"Thank you for putting up with me these past few years."

After saying this, I turned and walked away.

Whispers rose behind me. Someone asked "Who's that?" Someone said "I think that's Miss Bernard's ex-husband."

I didn't look back. I walked straight out of the hotel entrance.

The evening breeze rushed in, a bit chilly.

I took out my phone and sent her one final message: "I'm leaving. Don't look for me."

Then I powered it off, removed the SIM card, snapped it in half, and threw it in a trash can by the road.

I hailed a taxi. "To the airport."

The car started. The city's night scenery flew backward past the window.

I'd lived in this city for eight years, from having nothing to having nothing.

I closed my eyes. The last image that floated through my mind was from many years ago, at the university gates, when she stood before me and said "I like you."

Back then, there was light in her eyes. That light illuminated me for many years.

Later the light went out, and I couldn't get it back.