My Ex-Wife Will Regret Leaving Me

Chapter 005

The mention of that name, Brady Feyne, felt like a physical blow to my solar plexus, knocking the wind right out of me. I clenched my fists so tightly that my knuckles turned white and my fingernails bit deep into my palms. Back when I was still married to my ex-wife, Emma Hopkins, I had endured years of relentless belittlement. She looked down on me with a cold, piercing disdain that could freeze a man’s soul. I took it all—the insults, the sighs of disappointment, the way she rolled her eyes when I walked into a room—because I knew I wasn't exactly a high-flyer. I was a simple man with a simple life, and I figured if I just kept my head down and worked, the storm would eventually pass. I thought we were just going through a rough patch that might last a lifetime, but I was willing to "white-knuckle" it for the sake of the family.

But as the years dragged on, the atmosphere in our small home shifted from cold to toxic. Emma started spending hours in front of the mirror, caking on makeup and slipping into dresses that were far too provocative for a quick trip to the grocery store. She became a ghost in our house, whispering into her phone for half the night, her voice hushed and intimate in a way it never was with me. When she did look at me, her eyes were vacant, as if I were a piece of furniture she was planning to replace.

The intimacy, what little was left of it, evaporated completely. Whenever I tried to initiate anything—hoping a bit of physical closeness might bridge the widening chasm between us—she would recoil as if my touch were leprous. She had an arsenal of excuses: a sudden migraine, a backache, or simply being "too exhausted" from a day of doing absolutely nothing. On the rare, miserable occasions she finally gave in, it was a hollow, mechanical performance. She lay there like a statue, her occasional moans sounding more like a chore she was checking off a list than any expression of genuine pleasure.

I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid, right up until the afternoon I was sitting at the kitchen table with a cheap bottle of beer. Emma burst through the door, looking disheveled and frantic. Her hair was a bird's nest of tangles, her breath was coming in short, jagged gasps, and the strap of her sundress was torn, hanging limply off her shoulder.

Despite the chaos of her appearance, a primal urge flared up in me. I stood up and pulled her toward the table, my hands fumbling with her clothes, desperate for some sign that she was still mine. But she fought me with a ferocity that stunned me. She cursed, she scratched, and she clamped her legs together with a strength born of pure revulsion.

In the struggle, I realized something that turned my blood to ice. Under that light summer dress, she was wearing nothing at all. She was completely bare. I remembered vividly that when she had left the house that morning, she had been wearing a set of incredibly expensive, scarlet lace lingerie—the kind of "special occasion" set she never wore for me. My alcoholic haze cleared instantly. I demanded to know where her underwear was. I demanded to know why the skin on her inner thighs was flushed a raw, angry red and why she smelled of another man’s sweat and cheap cologne.

Emma didn't offer an explanation. She didn't even bother to lie. She wrenched herself out of my grip and delivered a stinging slap across my face that left my ear ringing. She told me, with a voice as sharp as a razor, that her body was her own and her "personal freedom" was none of my business.

That was the day the light went out for me. I fell into a deep, dark depression for a while. I thought about divorce, of course, but I felt too weak, too "small" to go through with it. Besides, we had a son to think about—a beautiful boy who was the only good thing to come out of that train wreck of a marriage. But the marriage was already dead; we were just two strangers sharing a graveyard. Emma became even more brazen, staying out for days at a time, only returning to the house to wash the scent of the city off her skin and change into a fresh set of "hunting" clothes. She grew more sophisticated, more alluring, but that radiance was a fire meant for someone else's hearth.

The rumors from the neighbors eventually gave the ghost a name: Brady Feyne. I spent nights fantasizing about being a "real man," about tracking them down to some seedy motel and catching them in the act, reclaiming my dignity with my fists. But I never got the chance. Before I could find my courage, she filed for divorce. We went through the motions, signed the papers, and became strangers. I hadn't heard her name, or his, in years.

And now, here I was in the Riverwood Estates, having just spent the night with the sister of the man Emma had traded me in for. The irony was so thick I could almost taste it.

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the lingering high from the encounter, but I felt a sudden, desperate need to talk. I ended up pouring my heart out to Kristinav Johnson. I told her everything—the humiliation, the scarlet lingerie, the years of feeling like a ghost in my own home. I had been holding it all in for so long, and the words came out in a messy, unstoppable flood.

Kristinav listened with an intensity that surprised me. She was clearly a woman with a strong sense of justice and a deep well of empathy. As I spoke, the coldness in her eyes softened into a genuine pity. She shifted on the sofa, moving closer to me until our shoulders were almost touching.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, her voice trembling with indignation. "It sounds like we’ve both been played by the same woman. We're two of a kind, aren't we? Bound by the same misfortune."

I gave her a weary, lopsided smile and reached for a crumpled pack of cigarettes in my pocket. I pulled one out—a cheap, harsh brand that cost next to nothing—but as I searched my pockets, I realized my lighter was missing.

Flick. A small, dancing flame appeared before my eyes. Kristinav was holding a lighter, her expression unreadable, a strange flicker of something—was it curiosity? attraction?—in her gaze. In that moment, I felt a wave of relief. Whatever happened next, I knew I wasn't going to jail. In fact, I started to let myself hope that this wouldn't be a one-time thing. Maybe, just maybe, I’d found a "partner in crime," someone who could help me forget the sting of the past.

I leaned in, the tip of my cigarette catching the flame. I took a deep, punishing drag, the harsh smoke burning my lungs in a way that felt oddly grounding.

"Can I have one?" she asked softly.

"You smoke?" I asked, surprised. I held out the mangled box, picking out the straightest one I could find.

"Only when the world feels like it's falling apart," she said, leaning toward me as I lit it for her. She handled the cigarette with a natural grace, unlike the hardened women you see leaning against the walls of the neon nightlife districts. But the moment she inhaled, she exploded into a fit of violent coughing, her eyes watering as she struggled for breath.

I moved instinctively, my hand landing on her back to steady her. As I patted her gently, I couldn't help but notice the thin film of perspiration on her skin from our earlier "exertions." The heat from her body seemed to transfer directly into my palm, and despite the fact that I should have been exhausted, I felt a familiar, throbbing pulse of desire starting up again. I was amazed at my own stamina; it was as if the years of celibacy had stored up a reservoir of energy that was only now being tapped.

"What is this stuff?" she wheezed, glaring at the cigarette. "It’s like inhaling a forest fire."

I felt my face heat up. "I'm sorry. I don't exactly live the high life. This is all I can afford."

"Oh... I didn't mean it like that," she said, her voice softening. "I forgot to ask... what do you actually do for a living, Sean?"

The question hung in the air like a heavy curtain. How was I supposed to answer that? Oh, I pedal a tricycle for pennies and wait outside strip clubs for drunks to pass out. I searched my brain for a way to make "unlicensed taxi driver" sound like a career in "urban logistics," but before I could speak, she waved her hand dismissively.

"If it’s a secret, don't worry about it," she said, a playful, almost flirtatious glint returning to her eyes. "I’m going to go take another shower. Make yourself at home."

She stood up, the thin towel barely clinging to her curves, and gave me a look that was part challenge, part invitation. I watched her walk away, my eyes locked on the sway of her hips—the very spot where I had spent so much of the night. It still felt like a fever dream.

I heard the sound of the shower starting, a rhythmic hiss from the bathroom. I considered leaving, but I felt a strange sense of responsibility—and a desperate desire to see her one more time. I needed to know if we were "us" or just a "one-off."

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the sharp, persistent ringing of the doorbell. My brain went into autopilot. Forgetting that I was a stranger in a million-dollar apartment, I stood up and pulled the door open.

"Auntie! I don't want to live anymore! Everything is over!"

Before I could even see who was standing in the hallway, a blurred figure collided with my chest. A pair of slender arms threw themselves around my neck, and a girl buried her face in my shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. The scent of her hair—strawberry shampoo and youth—filled my nostrils as she clung to me like a drowning person to a life raft.