Ex-Wife, Please Have Some Self-Respect

Rain lashed against the windshield of the old Volvo, blurring the world into streaks of gray and black. The wipers were fighting a losing battle, rhythmically thumping like a failing heart.

Jorden Nash gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white. His breath fogged the glass.

He was late.

Not for a meeting. Not for a doctor's appointment. He was late picking up a dress. A Dior evening gown that Catarina needed for tonight. A gown that she would wear while standing next to Atticus Deleon.

The thought made his stomach tighten. Acid burned the back of his throat.

Just get the dress, Jorden. Don't ruin the night.

He checked the time on the dashboard. 7:42 PM. The event started at eight. Chloe, Catarina's assistant, had already called twice. He hadn't answered. He was driving too fast on a slick road in upstate New York, trying to be the good husband. The useful husband.

The headlights of the oncoming truck didn't look like lights. They looked like two exploding stars.

The truck hydroplaned. It crossed the center line.

Jorden slammed on the brakes. The tires locked. The Volvo spun, the world tilting on its axis.

There was no time to scream. There was only the sound of metal screaming against metal, a deafening crunch that vibrated through his teeth, and then the shattering of glass.

Pain.

It wasn't a sharp prick. It was a sledgehammer to the chest. The steering column crushed inward. The airbag detonated like a bomb in his face.

Then, darkness.

But not silence.

Jorden didn't float toward a white light. He fell. He fell into a deep, digital abyss.

It felt like his brain was being pried open with a crowbar.

Accessing...

It wasn't a voice. It was a sensation. A pressure in his frontal lobe.

Billions of sparks ignited in the dark. They weren't stars. They were data.

Cooking. Molecular gastronomy. The precise temperature to coagulate an egg yolk. 62.5 degrees Celsius. Not just recipes, but the chemistry of sustenance.

Music. Rachmaninoff. The muscle memory of a left-hand arpeggio. The vibration of a Steinway string.

Surgery. The tension of a suture. The anatomy of the human heart. The exact pressure needed to crack a sternum.

Finance. High-frequency trading algorithms. Market volatility. The smell of fear on a trading floor.

The information didn't trickle in. It flooded him. It was a tsunami of competence crashing into a vessel that had been empty for three years. It hurt. It felt like his neurons were being burned away and re-soldered. He was drowning in other lives, other Jordens, other possibilities.

He screamed in the void, but no sound came out.

Calibration complete.

The darkness shattered.

"BP is stabilizing. 110 over 70. Heart rate 85."

The voice was mechanical. No, it was human, but it sounded distant.

"Pupils are reactive. He's coming back."

Jorden gasped. The air tasted like rubbing alcohol and burnt rubber. His eyes snapped open.

The light was blinding. He blinked, tears streaming down his temples. He was staring at a ceiling tile with a water stain shaped like a map of Florida.

"Mr. Nash? Can you hear me?"

A face loomed over him. Dr. Stein. Jorden didn't know him, but he knew the type. Tired eyes, caffeine tremors in the hands, a stethoscope that was slightly cold.

Jorden tried to speak. His throat felt like it was filled with shards of glass.

"Easy," Dr. Stein said, shining a penlight into Jorden's left eye. "You were in a severe accident. A truck hit you. Do you know your name?"

Jorden closed his eyes. The data streams were still running behind his eyelids, green and gold code cascading down. He focused. He pushed the noise back.

"Jorden," he rasped. "Jorden Nash."

"Good. Do you know what day it is?"

"Friday," Jorden whispered. Then, instinctively, his brain supplied more. "October 14th. The barometric pressure is 1013 millibars. Humidity is 85 percent."

Dr. Stein paused. He pulled the light away, frowning slightly. "That's... precise."

Jorden tried to sit up. A sharp, hot agony flared in his ribcage. He winced, his hand flying to his chest.

"Three broken ribs," Dr. Stein said, putting a hand on Jorden's shoulder to keep him down. "A concussion. Multiple contusions. You're lucky to be alive, son. The car is an accordion."

Jorden lay back. The pain was there, real and throbbing, but his mind analyzed it instantly. Intercostal nerve irritation. Inflammation. Manageable through controlled breathing, though the physical damage would take weeks to knit.

He looked to the side. A nurse, Nurse Joy according to her badge, was adjusting his IV drip. She looked at him with pity. That familiar look. The look people gave the husband who walked three steps behind the heiress.

But he didn't feel like that husband anymore.

He looked at the bedside table.

It was empty.

No flowers. No card. No Catarina.

Just his phone. The screen was shattered, a spiderweb of cracks over the glass.

"My phone," Jorden said.

Nurse Joy hesitated, then handed it to him. "It rang a few times. We didn't answer."

Jorden pressed the power button. The display glitched, colors distorting, but the touch sensor still responded.

Three missed calls.

Chloe Vance.

Chloe Vance.

Chloe Vance.

Not Wife. Not Catarina.

He opened the voicemail. He didn't put it to his ear. He pressed the speaker button.

Chloe's voice was shrill, piercing the quiet hum of the hospital machinery.

"Jorden, where the hell are you? Catarina has been waiting in the VIP lounge for thirty minutes! Did you get the dress? Atticus needs to match his tie to it. Pick up the phone! You are so incompetent it's actually impressive."

Nurse Joy winced. She looked away, embarrassed for him.

Jorden stared at the phone.

Yesterday, this message would have sent him into a panic. He would have been hyperventilating, texting apologies, begging for forgiveness for something that wasn't his fault. He would have felt that familiar crushing weight in his chest-the fear of losing her.

But now?

He felt... nothing.

No. Not nothing. He felt clarity.

The dress. He had almost died for a dress. A dress for a woman who couldn't be bothered to call him when he didn't show up. A woman who was currently worried about matching her lover's tie.

The emotions that usually ruled him-insecurity, devotion, desperation-were gone. They had been overwritten by the Archive.

Logic took the wheel.

Asset: Catarina Evans. Status: Liability. Return on Investment: Negative.

He deleted the voicemail.

Dr. Stein cleared his throat, holding a clipboard. "Mr. Nash, we need to set your ribs and monitor for internal bleeding. We usually ask for a next of kin to be present for consent, just in case complications arise during the procedure. Should we call your wife again?"

Jorden looked at the doctor. His eyes, usually warm and pleading, were now dark pools of ice.

"No," Jorden said. His voice was steady. "She's busy."

"Are you sure? It's major surgery."

"I'm sure." Jorden reached out. His hand didn't shake. "Give me the pen."

Dr. Stein handed it to him. Jorden signed his name. The signature was different. Sharper. More aggressive.

The phone in his hand buzzed again.

The screen lit up.

Wife.

Nurse Joy perked up. "Oh! That must be her. Do you want to-"

Jorden looked at the name. Wife. It felt like a word from a foreign language. A label for a job he had just been fired from. Or rather, a job he was quitting.

He didn't swipe green.

He pressed the volume button on the side of the phone.

The buzzing stopped.

He placed the phone face down on the cold metal table.

"Let's get this over with," Jorden said to the doctor, closing his eyes.

The silence in the room was heavy after the phone stopped buzzing.

Jorden lay still. The pain medication was starting to drip into his veins, a cool sensation creeping up his arm. It dulled the sharp edges of the agony in his chest, but it didn't touch the sharpness of his mind.

Nurse Joy came back in to check the IV. She reached for the dial to increase the flow.

"Stop," Jorden said.

She jumped. "I'm just adjusting the-"

"The drip rate is too high for a saline solution with that concentration of analgesic," Jorden said. He didn't look at her; he stared at the ceiling. "If you increase it, my blood pressure will drop too rapidly given the concussion. Keep it at 20 drops per minute."

Nurse Joy blinked. She looked at the monitor, then back at him. "Are you... are you a doctor, Mr. Nash?"

"No," Jorden said. "Just observant."

The phone on the table vibrated again. It rattled against the metal surface like an angry hornet.

Jorden sighed. He reached out and flipped it over.

Chloe Vance.

She wasn't giving up. Of course she wasn't. Chloe was a pit bull in high heels, trained by Catarina to bite anything that inconvenienced her.

Jorden slid his thumb across the screen. He answered.

He didn't bring the phone to his ear. He held it in front of his face.

"Jorden!" Chloe's scream was loud enough that Dr. Stein, standing at the foot of the bed, looked up from his chart. "Are you insane? Do you know what time it is? Catarina is furious. She is literally shaking."

In the background, Jorden could hear the clinking of crystal glasses and the low murmur of a jazz band. The sounds of the life he used to beg to be part of.

"Atticus is asking where the hell his matching vest is," Chloe continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "You had one job. One simple job. Pick up the dry cleaning. How do you manage to screw up everything you touch?"

Jorden listened. He analyzed the frequency of her voice. High pitch. Rapid cadence. Stress indicators. She's terrified of Catarina.

"Speak!" Chloe snapped. "Don't just breathe at me. Where are you?"

Jorden licked his dry lips. "Chloe."

"What?" she snapped.

"Shut your mouth."

The line went dead silent.

It wasn't a silence of confusion. It was the silence of shock. Jorden Nash-the doormat, the 'yes man', the husband who apologized when she stepped on his foot-had just told her to shut up.

"Excuse me?" Chloe's voice came back, lower, dangerous. "I think the reception is bad. Did you just tell me to-"

"I said shut your mouth," Jorden repeated. His voice wasn't loud. It was calm. It was the voice of a man giving an order to a subordinate. "And listen carefully."

"You are going to regret this," Chloe hissed. "Catarina is going to-"

"The dress," Jorden cut over her, "is in the trunk of my car."

"Finally," Chloe huffed. "Well, bring it here. Now. And don't expect to be let in the VIP area, just drop it at the-"

"My car," Jorden continued, "is currently wrapped around a guardrail on Interstate 95, about forty miles north of the city."

There was a pause.

"What?" Chloe asked. The anger faltered for a second.

"It's a total loss," Jorden said. "The trunk is crushed. The dress is likely covered in hydraulic fluid and rainwater. If Catarina wants it, she is welcome to drive up here and pry it out of the wreckage with the Jaws of Life."

"Are you... are you serious?" Chloe stammered. "You wrecked the car? With the dress inside?"

She didn't ask if he was okay. She didn't ask if he was hurt.

She asked about the car. And the dress.

Jorden closed his eyes. A final, severing snap echoed in his chest. It wasn't a rib. It was the last thread of his attachment to these people.

"Goodbye, Chloe," Jorden said.

"Wait! You can't just-"

He hung up.

Then, with a few precise taps, he blocked her number.

He dropped the phone onto the bed.

"Mr. Nash," Dr. Stein said softly. "Was that..."

"Work," Jorden said. "Just work."

Manhattan. The Obsidian Club.

The VIP lounge was a study in excess. Velvet walls, gold fixtures, and people who cost more to insure than most small towns.

Chloe Vance stood near the bar, her phone pressed to her ear, her mouth agape. She stared at the screen that now read Call Ended.

She turned slowly.

Catarina Evans was sitting on a plush emerald sofa. She looked like a queen on her throne. Her silver dress shimmered under the chandelier lights, perfect and expensive. But her face was a mask of irritation.

She swirled a glass of Pinot Noir, her eyes fixed on the entrance, waiting for a husband she despised to walk in with her property.

Next to her sat Atticus Deleon. He was handsome in a way that required maintenance. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his smile practiced. He had a hand resting casually on the back of the sofa, just inches from Catarina's bare shoulder.

"Well?" Catarina asked, not looking at Chloe. "Is the idiot on his way?"

Chloe swallowed hard. Her face flushed. "Ms. Evans... he... he hung up on me."

The chatter in the immediate vicinity died down. A few of Catarina's friends-socialites who treated drama like oxygen-leaned in.

Catarina's hand stopped swirling the wine. She turned her head slowly. Her eyes were sharp, dangerous.

"He did what?"

"He hung up," Chloe said, her voice trembling. "He said the car is wrecked. On I-95. He said the dress is... ruined."

"Ruined?" Atticus chimed in, leaning forward. "That was a twelve-thousand-dollar custom piece. And my vest?"

"He said..." Chloe hesitated, glancing around the room. "He said if you want it, you can go pry it out of the wreckage yourself."

A gasp rippled through the small circle.

Catarina set her glass down on the marble table with a sharp clack.

She wasn't worried about the car crash. She assumed it was a fender bender. Jorden was a dramatic driver. He was probably exaggerating to get out of trouble.

But the attitude? The disrespect?

Heat rushed up her neck. Jorden Nash didn't have a backbone. She had made sure of that years ago. He existed to serve her, to look at her with puppy-dog eyes, to be the safe, boring backup plan while she navigated her complicated feelings for Atticus.

He didn't get to hang up.

"Give me the phone," Catarina demanded, extending her hand.

"He... he blocked me, I think," Chloe whispered.

Catarina laughed. It was a cold, incredulous sound. "He blocked you? The man who pays for his Netflix subscription with my supplementary credit card blocked my assistant?"

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her own phone. The latest iPhone, encased in leather.

"Atticus," she said, her voice tight. "Order another bottle. I need to handle a toddler."

She dialed Jorden.

It rang once. Twice.

Then, the automated voice. The subscriber you have called is not available.

He had sent her to voicemail.

Catarina stared at the phone. Her reflection in the black screen looked distorted, angry.

"He's dead," she muttered, not meaning it literally. "When he gets home, he is absolutely dead."

Atticus chuckled, reaching for her hand. "Relax, Cat. Let him have his little tantrum. It makes him look pathetic. You, on the other hand..." He squeezed her fingers. "You look magnificent even when you're angry."

Catarina looked at Atticus. His touch was warm. His smile was dazzling.

But for the first time in years, she felt a strange, cold knot in her stomach.

Why wasn't Jorden picking up? He always picked up. Even when she was screaming. Even when she was cruel. He was the constant.

The silence on the other end of the line felt heavy. It felt... final.

She pulled her hand away from Atticus, grabbing her wine glass again.

"I need a drink," she said, downing the wine in one unladylike gulp.

The atmosphere in the VIP lounge had shifted. It was subtle, like a drop in air pressure before a storm. The music was still playing-a smooth, saxophone-heavy jazz number-but Catarina couldn't hear it.

All she could hear was the echo of that automated voicemail.

The subscriber is not available.

She slammed the empty wine glass onto the marble table. A few drops of red liquid splashed onto the white tablecloth, blooming like fresh blood.

"Cat, darling, easy," Atticus said, his voice dripping with that smooth, practiced concern that usually made her knees weak. He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't let him ruin my birthday. That's what he wants. He's probably sitting in a tow truck right now, sulking, waiting for you to panic."

"I'm not panicking," Catarina snapped. She pulled away from his touch. "I'm annoyed. There's a difference."

"Of course," Atticus soothed. He stood up, buttoning his jacket. He didn't have the matching vest, but he still looked the part of the dashing artist. "Let's change the mood. Remember college? The karaoke nights at the frat house?"

Catarina's college friends, a gaggle of women in sequins and men in loafers, started to cheer.

"Yes! Sing something!" one of them yelled. "Forget the husband, Cat. He's a buzzkill."

Someone thrust a microphone into Catarina's hand. Another was given to Atticus.

The DJ, reading the room (and the tips), cut the jazz and faded in the intro to a classic duet. "Endless Love."

It was their song. Or at least, the song Atticus always claimed was theirs.

Atticus flashed a winning smile at the crowd, then turned his gaze to Catarina. He looked at her with that intensity that she had spent three years pining for. The intensity that Jorden never had. Jorden was safe water; Atticus was fire.

Atticus began to sing. His voice was decent-trained, theatrical. He moved closer to her, invading her personal space, creating an intimate bubble in the middle of the crowded room.

"My love, there's only you in my life..."

The crowd swooned. Phones came out to record the "perfect couple."

Catarina raised the microphone to her lips. She knew the words. She had sung this with him a hundred times in her head.

But as she opened her mouth, her eyes darted to her phone sitting on the table.

The screen was black.

Still no text. No "I'm sorry, Cat." No "Are you mad?" No "Please forgive me."

Usually, by now, Jorden would have sent a paragraph-long apology. He would be promising to buy her a new dress, promising to make it up to her. His desperation was her safety net. It was annoying, yes, but it was hers.

Now? Nothing.

"The only thing that's bright..." Atticus sang, reaching for her waist.

Catarina missed her cue.

She was staring at the phone. Was he hurt? Chloe said the car was a total loss.

If he's hurt, why didn't he ask for me?

The thought was a splinter in her mind. Jorden always needed her. He was codependent. He couldn't make a decision about dinner without asking her opinion. If he was in a wreck, he should be calling her screaming for help.

His silence wasn't just out of character. It was alien.

"Cat?" Atticus whispered, covering the mic. "Your line."

Catarina shook her head slightly, snapping back to reality. She forced a smile. It felt brittle.

She joined in on the chorus, but her voice was flat. She was going through the motions.

Atticus noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before he masked it with a passionate high note that drowned her out. He stepped in front of her, soaking up the spotlight, turning the duet into a solo with a backup singer.

When the song ended, the applause was polite but enthusiastic. Atticus beamed, bowing theatrically. He turned to hug her.

Catarina took a half-step back.

It was instinct. A physical rejection she didn't plan.

Atticus froze. His arms hovered in the air for a second before he smoothly converted the hug into a pat on the shoulder.

"You seem tense," he murmured, his breath smelling of expensive scotch and mint. "Here."

He signaled a waiter. A tray of shots appeared. Tequila.

"Let's loosen up," Atticus said, handing her a glass. "To us. And to cutting out the dead weight."

Catarina took the glass. The smell of the tequila hit her nose-sharp, chemical.

Her stomach lurched.

"You can't drink tequila on an empty stomach, Cat. Your ulcer."

Jorden's voice echoed in her memory. He always monitored her drinks. He would have swapped this for a glass of water or ordered her some tapas first. He was annoying about her health. Suffocatingly attentive.

Atticus didn't know about her ulcer. Or he didn't care.

She looked at Atticus. He was already throwing his shot back, laughing with her friends. He looked... shiny. Superficial.

Suddenly, the noise of the club was too much. The laughter sounded shrill. The perfume in the air was cloying.

"I can't," Catarina said, putting the glass down hard.

"What?" Atticus frowned.

"I'm tired," she said. She grabbed her clutch. "I'm going home."

"Home?" Atticus looked offended. "It's barely ten o'clock. And it's my birthday."

"I have a headache," she lied. "And I need to see if... I need to handle the car situation."

"Leave it to the lawyers," Atticus dismissed, grabbing her arm. His grip was a little too tight. "Stay. Don't let him win by ruining your night."

Catarina looked down at his hand on her arm. Her skin crawled.

"Let go, Atticus," she said coldly.

He released her immediately, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Just trying to help."

"I'll call you tomorrow," she said, turning on her heel.

She walked out of the VIP lounge, ignoring Chloe's frantic wave. She marched toward the elevator, her heart beating fast.

She wasn't going home to sleep.

She was going home to confront Jorden. She was going to scream at him until he broke, until he apologized, until the world made sense again.

Because this new Jorden-this silent, phone-hanging-up Jorden-terrified her more than she was willing to admit.