Chapter 6 Let's Get Divorced

Vera's POV

The night stretched endlessly as I lay alone in our king-sized bed, staring at the ceiling. My skin still tingled from Idris's touch—touches that had been interrupted by Raven's call. I hadn't slept. How could I? My husband had rushed out to care for another woman, leaving me half-undressed and humiliated.

By the next evening, Idris still hadn't returned home or even called. The silence of our apartment felt suffocating. The marble floors echoed my solitary footsteps as I paced. Sunlight faded into twilight, casting long shadows across our designer furniture.

I mindlessly scrolled through my phone when a notification appeared—a direct message on Instagram from Raven Hill. My heart seemed to pause mid-beat.

My finger hovered over it, heart pounding against my ribs. I knew whatever lay inside would hurt, but I pressed it anyway, my curiosity outweighing my self-preservation.

The video loaded instantly: Raven, disheveled in bed, sheets artfully arranged to appear innocent yet revealing. Idris sat beside her, his hand tenderly brushing her forehead as he took her temperature. His eyes held a gentleness I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

The tenderness in his touch made my stomach clench. This was the care I had begged for, the attention I had been starved of.

Before I could process the video, an audio message followed:

"Vera, Idris just told me he never loved you. He said being with you makes him sick to his stomach. We're sorry you have to find out this way, but he's too worried about your 'fragile emotions' to tell you directly."

Raven's voice was honey-sweet with venom. The phone slipped from my hand, clattering to the hardwood floor. My legs gave out, and I sank to my knees, tears blurring my vision. Each sob felt like it was being wrenched from deep within me, years of suppressed hurt finally breaking free.

Then something shifted inside me. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand and stood up. Three years of neglect, humiliation, and lies crystallized into absolute clarity. My reflection in the living room mirror showed red-rimmed eyes but a newfound resolve.

I walked deliberately to our home office, opened my laptop, and began searching for divorce attorneys. My fingers moved steadily across the keyboard as I drafted a preliminary divorce agreement. The terms were fair. I wanted nothing from him except my freedom. No more tears. No more hope. No more Idris.

By nightfall, I stood in our walk-in closet, methodically selecting what to take. My fingers trailed over the Chanel couture gown Idris had bought for our second anniversary, the Dior collection he'd purchased after forgetting my birthday. I wouldn't take a single piece of the designer wardrobe he'd draped me in like an expensive doll.

I packed only a few seasonal everyday outfits and essential personal items. The wedding ring—a five-carat diamond that had once symbolized promises now broken—I placed deliberately in the center of my vanity table, letting it catch the light.

By one in the morning, I had positioned two large Rimowa suitcases and a canvas bag containing my painting supplies in the foyer. I was ready to leave behind the gilded cage of my marriage. I perched on the bottom step of the staircase, watching the front door, waiting.

The sound of keys in the door made me freeze. Idris pushed the door open, exhaustion evident on his face. When he spotted the luggage, confusion replaced fatigue.

"Where are you going? Planning some trip?" he asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

I stood silently on the staircase, studying him. His shirt was rumpled, and I could detect the unmistakable scent of Raven's Jo Malone Red Roses perfume mixed with alcohol. When he reached to touch my arm, I stepped back instinctively, my body recoiling from his touch as if it were poison.

"Don't touch me," I said, my voice steady as I turned and walked upstairs.

I lay in bed facing away from the door when I heard Idris's soft knock.

"Vera, about yesterday... I'm sorry," his voice filtered through the door, low and vague.

Tears slid silently down my cheeks. In three years of marriage, this was the first time Idris had ever said "sorry" to me. Yet the word rang hollow, too little and far too late. I remained silent as his footsteps eventually retreated down the hallway.

Morning arrived with cold determination. I dressed in a simple white silk blouse and khaki trousers, then headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast as I always did. I meticulously crafted perfect eggs Benedict, arranging them on our wedding china with practiced precision. The routine was comforting, even as I was dismantling it.

Idris descended the stairs, a small Tiffany blue box in hand. He opened it to reveal a pink diamond necklace worth millions.

"To apologize for last night," he said, attempting to clasp it around my neck. "I mean it this time."

I caught my reflection in the mirrored backsplash, the diamonds sparkling in the morning light. A wave of nausea swept through me. The necklace felt contaminated, another beautiful object meant to keep me silent and compliant.

Gently removing it, I placed it on the dining table and pulled out a folder containing the divorce papers.

"I said, let's get divorced," I stated calmly, my voice surprisingly steady. "I don't want you anymore."

Idris stood frozen, coffee cup suspended midair, his expression transforming from confidence to utter disbelief.