Chapter 5 The Man Who Couldn't Reach Me

Adrian called three times that morning.

I didn't answer any of them.

The phone vibrated against the table while I drank my coffee, the screen lighting up with his name like it had every other morning for three years. The difference was that now, it meant nothing.

I turned the phone face down and continued reading.

By the fourth call, I had finished my coffee.

By the fifth, I had finished my breakfast.

He left a voicemail after the sixth.

I deleted it without listening.

Silence had once been his weapon.

Now it was mine.

At work, I kept busy.

Meetings. Emails. Deadlines. A normal day built on choices I made for myself. But even as I focused, I felt it-the shift. The sense of being watched from a distance, of something old trying to reassert itself.

During lunch, my phone buzzed again.

Adrian:

Where are you staying?

I stared at the message for a moment, then locked my screen.

He used to ask that when I was late coming home.

When I still belonged somewhere he expected me to be.

I didn't anymore.

That evening, I ran into someone I hadn't planned to see.

"Hey," a familiar voice said.

I turned to find Daniel standing behind me in the elevator lobby. He looked exactly the way I remembered-calm, warm, unhurried. Someone who listened when people spoke.

"I didn't know you were back," he said, smiling.

"I didn't advertise it."

He laughed softly. "You never did."

Daniel had known me before my marriage. Before I learned how to disappear inside someone else's life.

We talked briefly-about work, about the city, about nothing important. And yet, the ease of the conversation felt unfamiliar in the best way.

When the elevator arrived, he stepped inside with me.

"You look happy," he said as the doors closed.

I considered the word.

"Peaceful," I corrected.

He nodded. "That suits you."

Across the city, Adrian Hale stared at his phone like it had betrayed him.

The unread messages.

The unanswered calls.

He replayed the conversation from the night before again and again, searching for a moment he could undo.

You signed the papers.

You didn't read them.

The idea felt impossible. Absurd.

And yet, every search confirmed it.

Divorce finalized.

Assets settled.

Marriage dissolved.

Three years ago.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling of his office as something unfamiliar tightened in his chest.

Loss.

Not the kind you could recover from with strategy or money.

The kind that came from realizing the person you assumed would always be there had already learned how to live without you.

That night, there was a knock on my door.

I didn't open it.

I didn't need to.

I already knew who it was.

"Please," his voice came through the door. Lower than usual. Controlled, but strained. "Just talk to me."

I leaned my forehead against the wood and closed my eyes.

Three years ago, I would have opened the door before he finished the sentence.

Now, I stayed where I was.

"I'm not asking for forgiveness," he said. "I just need to understand."

I said nothing.

After a long moment, his voice dropped even further.

"I didn't know," he said.

The words passed through me without leaving a mark.

"I know," I whispered-so quietly he couldn't hear it.

And that was the truth.

Eventually, his footsteps retreated down the hallway.

I waited until the building was silent again before turning away from the door.

For the first time, Adrian Hale was on the outside of my life.

And no matter how hard he knocked, I wasn't letting him back in.