He laughed angrily. “Over? You think you can decide that by yourself? I will never sign divorce papers.”
I took a sip of coffee.
“Then maybe you should read what you already signed before speaking so confidently.”
Silence.
I could almost hear him unfolding the papers.
Then came his sharp intake of breath.
He saw the truth at last. The divorce agreement listed infidelity as grounds. Asset division. Legal terms. And at the bottom, unmistakably, his own signature.
His voice turned cold. “You forged this. That’s illegal.”
I leaned back in my chair. “If you don’t believe me, get a handwriting expert.”
He must have stared at that signature for a long time, trying to find some flaw, some loophole, some sign that reality could still be bullied into becoming what he wanted.
When he spoke again, his tone had changed.
“You tricked me into signing when I didn’t know what it was. It doesn’t count.”
I had expected that too.
So I sent him a video.
A short one.
In it, he was sitting in the noisy bar on the night I handed him the papers. You could clearly hear me say, “We’re getting divorced.” You could clearly see him answer absently, “Mm,” and sign anyway.
After I sent it, I said, “There is no room left for discussion. If you disagree, your lawyers can contact mine. Whether this ends by agreement or in court, I’m leaving.”
Then I hung up.
Ethan watched the video once and remembered everything.
That was the worst part for him, I think. Not being tricked. Not being ambushed.
Remembering that I had told the truth and he had been too busy coddling another woman to listen.
Panic hit him then. Real panic.
He rushed to my parents’ house.
I wasn’t there.
He searched every place he could think of. The restaurants we had dated at. The villas he had once bought to placate me after fights. Friends’ homes. Hotels.
Nothing.
He went more than thirty hours without sleep, running on caffeine and obsession.
Then, finally, traffic cameras traced my car heading south.
South Bay.
He drove there like a madman.
When he pounded on the door, Noah answered with a kitchen knife in one hand and a half-peeled apple in the other.
Ethan barely looked at him. “Move.”
Noah smiled faintly and twirled the knife once. The blade flashed near Ethan’s face.
“This is private property,” he said pleasantly. “Break in if you want. Just understand the consequences.”
Only then did Ethan stop.
“This is my house,” he snapped. “Who the hell are you?”
That question amused Noah more than it should have. “I’m the man living with my fiancée.”
Before Ethan could process that, I came out of the bathroom drying my hair.
The moment Noah saw me, his sharpness vanished like mist. He transformed back into the soft, obedient version of himself and immediately moved to my side.
“This stranger barged in,” he said. “Should I call the cops?”
Ethan looked at him, then at me, and said my name like he was drowning.
“Lily.”
I stopped a few feet away.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I told you. If you have anything to say, contact my lawyer.”
He looked like I had put out the last light in the room.
“I think there are misunderstandings between us,” he said quickly. “Can we talk?”
I didn’t answer him first. I looked at Noah instead.
“Weren’t you making pear soup?” I asked softly. “Go finish it. I’ll help in a minute.”
He frowned like an unhappy child but obeyed.
Then I faced Ethan, and my voice went cold again.
“There are no misunderstandings. You repeatedly cheated during our marriage. I divorced you. It’s simple.”