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Two women.
His wife. His daughter.
Two pieces of his heart.
And for once, he has no fight left.
After a long pause, he gives a small, reluctant nod.
It’s not an enthusiastic blessing. But it’s permission.
And that’s enough.
I nod, blinking back tears.
For the first time since last night, I feel like I can breathe again.
28
Chapter 23
Zasha
Three weeks later.
The ride back from Panama is longer than it should be. Customs delays. Broken air conditioning in the SUV. Viktor bitching about the humidity like it’s a personal insult.
But I barely register any of it.
I keep thinking of home. Of walking through the front doors and finding her curled on the couch with her tea. Maybe still angry, maybe quiet. But there. Present and ready to talk.
Instead, what greets me when I step into the estate is silence. Not stillness, but stark absence. The air feels stale. The kind of cold that settles in when a house is empty and void.
My duffel slides off my shoulder and thuds against the floor. There is no music playing in the kitchen. There’s no scent of citrus shampoo lingering in the hallway. Only a heavy silence signals that my house has returned to how it was before Mara.
I walk through the first floor slowly, almost like I’m checking for signs of life. As if she might still be here, hiding in some corner. But I know better.
The weight pressing into my throat tells me I already know. In the kitchen, something catches my eye. A white envelope resting on the counter—placed with intention, not carelessness. My name is written on it in her handwriting.
I don’t open it right away. For a few seconds, I just stare at it, as though maybe if I wait long enough, it will disappear.
But it doesn’t, so I tear it open.
Inside are the divorce papers—already signed. Her neat and clean signature is at the bottom of the page. Tucked inside is a short note, handwritten in the same precise calligraphy:
Zasha,
I’ve signed my part. Please forward the completed document to my lawyers. If you require anything else, contact them directly. They will liaise with me.
— Xiomara Delgado
That’s it?
No explanation, not a fucking goodbye. No ‘thank you for letting yourself be used’. All she left is instructions.
My stomach knots, slow and tight. I set the letter down, but it feels like it’s burned into my hand. She didn’t even want to be here when I returned. She couldn’t even look me in the eye when she severed us.
I pick up the letter again, read it, then again. Like the words might morph into something else if I stare hard enough. Like there’s a hidden sentence I missed.