Chapter 4: Divorce?

Clara The car stopped in front of the house without me even noticing the drive. The driver opened the door, but I didn't move immediately. My hands were clasped in my lap, my fingers tightly closed, as if letting go would be a betrayal of the woman I had been for years. "Good evening, Mrs. Blackwood." I nodded without looking at him. As I got out, the cold air hit my face, but it wasn't enough to dispel the feeling that weighed on my chest. The house lights were off, as they always were when Ethan wasn't there. From the outside, it looked elegant, imposing, perfect. From the inside… it had always been silent. I closed the door behind me, and the echo of my footsteps spread through the foyer. I didn't turn on the main lights. I walked, guided by the small lamps, the ones I had chosen to create a sense of home that never quite materialized. I took off my heels in the hallway and left them to one side. The sharp sound of leather against marble seemed too loud for a house accustomed to my silence. I entered the living room and sank into one of the armchairs, the one facing the garden window. From there I could see the trees, the soft lights outside, the still pool. Everything so perfect, so orderly, so empty. Home… The word formed in my mind and struck me as absurd. Home implies laughter in the kitchen, gentle arguments, unexpected hugs, voices calling to each other from another room. This house had been an elegant hotel where I was the only permanent guest. I looked around. The furniture I had chosen, the paintings I had hung, the rugs I had imported. Everything was exactly where it should be. And yet, nothing felt like mine. I felt tears fall before I realized I was crying. It wasn't a loud cry. It was silent, slow, as if my body had learned to suffer without bothering anyone. Tears streamed down my cheeks and disappeared into the fabric of the armchair. I remembered the gala, the speech… His voice proudly calling Vanessa's name… The absence of my name. I hadn't screamed. I hadn't made a scene. No one had noticed the crack opening inside me. But I had. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. Time, so much time waiting for something that was never meant to be. Time justifying silences, interpreting gestures, inventing excuses for a man who never asked me to invent them. Because he never felt he had to explain himself. Part of me wanted to keep crying. To let the pain seep through me until I was completely drained. But another part, wearyer, older, rose up inside me like a firm voice. I can't take it anymore… The words didn't leave my lips, but they pierced my mind with terrifying clarity. I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. I took a deep breath. I wasn't going to be the woman who waits anymore. I stood up. The house was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat as I climbed the stairs. Each footstep echoed in the hallways like a preemptive goodbye. I entered the bedroom… Our room. The bed was immaculate. The pillows were neatly arranged. The sheets were perfectly smooth. Everything as usual. Everything as if no one slept there for emotional reasons, only out of routine. I opened the closet. My dresses were arranged by color. My shoes were lined up. My jewelry was stored in compartments. Every object spoke of an organized, controlled, elegant life. But it didn't speak of love. I took a suitcase from the top shelf and placed it on the bed. Then another. And another. My hands moved with mechanical precision as I began to fold clothes. Dresses, blouses, sweaters. I didn't cry while I packed. I didn't hesitate. Every item of clothing I packed was a silent affirmation of something I'd been putting off for years. I didn't know where I was going, I only knew I couldn't stay there. I sat on the edge of the bed when I finished packing the essentials. The suitcases were closed to one side, lined up, discreet, like everything else in my life. I looked at the clock. It was past eleven. Ethan would be late, he was always late. I stayed there, waiting. Not with hope, but with an expectant calm, like someone waiting for a storm knowing they can't stop it. The silence was absolute. Only the distant ticking of the clock and the soft hum of the heating system. I thought about all the nights I'd spent in that same bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping to feel something more than absence. I thought about all the times I'd convinced myself that love would grow if I was patient. I thought about the woman I became when I got married, the one who believed that time created intimacy. The one who thought physical closeness would awaken emotions, the one who confused stability with affection. The front door opened. I didn't jump, I didn't smile, I didn't count the seconds. I heard his footsteps ascending the stairs. Firm. Confident. As always. I recognized his state. I could tell by the way he was walking. He seemed content today. The bedroom door opened. "Clara?" I slowly looked up. "I'm here." He came in, loosening his tie. His movements were automatic, mechanical. He placed his phone on the dresser, took off his jacket, and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "Why did you leave?" he asked, his tone neither reproachful nor concerned. Just curious. I looked at him silently. "We need to talk." My words hung in the air. He didn't pick them up. He turned to the closet, put his jacket back, and went to the bathroom. He was acting as if I had said the soup was cold or that it would rain tomorrow. "The event was perfect," he said from the bathroom. "The London investors were impressed. Vanessa handled the presentation flawlessly." His voice was filled with that quiet satisfaction he only felt when something went right in business. He came out of the bathroom, drying his hands with a towel. "We're going to close the deal ahead of schedule. It's a huge expansion for the company." He went over to the bed, sat on its side, checking messages. "It was a productive night." I watched him. He could talk for hours about numbers, strategies, contracts. He'd never talked about us like that before. "I want a divorce." The words came out of my mouth without a tremor. Ethan froze. His hand stopped mid-gesture. His gaze slowly rose to meet mine. His eyebrows furrowed, as if he'd misheard. "What did you say?" I didn't raise my voice. I didn't cry. I didn't move. "I want a divorce." The silence fell over the room with a physical weight. That's when his eyes shifted to the suitcases beside my bed. He looked at them as if they were a decorating mistake. Then he looked back at me. "What's this?" I stood up slowly, without breaking eye contact. "My things." "Since when…?" He didn't finish the sentence. "Since today." He stood up too, as if gravity had shifted. "Clara, this isn't funny." "I'm not joking." "Is it because of the gala?" he asked, frowning. "If something bothered you…" "No." His lips parted slightly, surprised. "Then I don't understand." "That's the problem, Ethan," I replied calmly. "You never understood." He took a step closer. "You're exaggerating. You're tired. It was a long night." "No." "We can talk about it tomorrow." "We're talking about it now." He sighed, as if I were a logistical problem that needed to be patiently resolved. "Clara, this isn't the right time." "It never is for you." My words made him stop. "How long have you felt like this?" "Always. Don't act surprised." He frowned. "That doesn't make sense." "I know." He ran a hand through his hair, visibly uncomfortable. "You can't make a decision like this over one night." "It's not over one night," I said. "It's over every night." His gaze hardened. "I haven't done anything wrong." "I know." "So what are you saying?" I took a deep breath. "I'm saying I don't want to continue living in a marriage where I'm invisible." Silence fell again. "What are you saying?" "No." The word was soft, but firm. "You trusted me to organize your life. To maintain your image. To manage your house. But you never chose me." "That's not true." "Yes, it is." He moved closer, but didn't touch me. "You married me knowing what I'm like." "Yes," I replied. "And I thought you'd change when you loved me." He remained motionless. "And do you love me?" I asked. He didn't answer immediately. That second of silence was more painful than any confession. "I don't know," he finally said. "I never thought about it." I nodded slowly. "I did. Every day." He sat on the edge of the bed, as if the weight of the conversation had suddenly overwhelmed him. "Clara, you can't leave like this." "Yes, I can." "This is madness." "No. This is clarity." "Where will you go?" "I don't know." "What about us?" "There is no us." His eyes met mine, surprised. He walked to the window, staring at the city as if searching for answers in the distant lights. "You need to sleep," he said. "We'll talk tomorrow." "There's nothing to talk about tomorrow." "There's always something to talk about." "Not for me." He turned sharply. "Since when do you make decisions without telling me?" "Since I realized you'd never ask." His lips tightened. "This can't end like this." "It ended a long time ago," I replied. I picked up one of the suitcases. "I'm just putting words to it." I looked at him. I didn't see love… I saw surprise, I saw fear of the unknown. I saw the discomfort of losing something he never valued. "I'm not leaving for someone else," I said. "I'm leaving for myself." His fingers slowly loosened. "Clara…" "Don't follow me," I added. "Don't try to convince me. Don't promise me things you don't understand." I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the door. Before leaving, I turned around one last time. "I wanted to be your home," I whispered. "But you never let me in." "I think you're exaggerating. Did you take more than you should have? Is that it?” He looks at me in astonishment, of course… the quiet woman, the one who never complained, today raising her voice. “I’ll stay in one of the guest rooms, okay? That way you can rest and relax. We’ll talk calmly tomorrow.” He leaves the room assuming that when he wakes up I’ll still be here, but I can’t, I can’t take it anymore… I looked at my luggage, I looked at my room and took a deep breath… as if for a second I were about to believe that expression and that my reaction was exaggerated.