Chapter 6 - THE MORNING AFTER
The sun rose over downtown Dallas the next morning, casting a golden glow across the skyline that I hadn’t noticed in years.
From the high-rise window of the temporary corporate apartment I had leased two weeks prior using my own corporate freelance savings, I watched the morning commuters rush along the sidewalks below. I held a cup of black coffee in my hand, wearing a simple linen blouse and tailored trousers—no yoga pants, no spit-up stains, no apologies.
My mother was in the kitchenette feeding pancakes to Maya and Leo, who were already chattering happily about their new temporary home, completely oblivious to the legal hurricane that had swallowed their father whole.
My phone buzzed against the marble countertop.
It was an unknown number, but the area code was local. I swiped the screen and pressed it to my ear.
“Clara?”
A timid, shaking voice came through the speaker. It wasn’t Julian.
It was Selina.
“Selina,” I said, my tone flat and guarded. “How did you get this number?”
“Aaron gave it to me,” she sobbed softly, the sound of muffled sniffling echoing in the background. “Clara... please. You have to help me. Aaron kicked me out last night. He took my car keys, he locked me out of our accounts, and he’s threatening to sue me for breach of marriage contract because of... because of the car Julian bought.”
I took a slow sip of my coffee, savoring the bitter warmth. “And why are you calling me, Selina? Shouldn’t you be calling Julian? Oh, wait—Julian is currently wearing an orange jumpsuit in a federal holding facility. My mistake.”
“Julian lied to me!” Selina cried, her voice rising hysterically. “He told me his marriage to you was practically over! He told me you were emotionally unstable, that you didn't appreciate him, that he was going to divorce you the second his corporate deal went through! He promised me we’d run away to Europe!”
I stared out the window at the distant highway, feeling a strange, hollow sort of pity for the girl on the other end of the line. She had let herself be blinded by expensive dinners and flattery from a man who viewed women as disposable accessories.
“Selina,” I said, my voice steady and firm. “Julian told me the exact same things about you. He told me you were the embodiment of pure elegance, and that I was a pathetic mess compared to you.”
There was a sharp gasp on the other end of the line.
“Did... did he say that?” she whispered.
“Word for word, at his 40th birthday party yesterday afternoon,” I replied. “Right before I took the microphone and told the entire guest list that he was an embezzler. Here’s a piece of free advice, Selina: a man who speaks about his wife that way will speak about his mistress the exact same way the second she stops being convenient. Pack your bags, get a lawyer, and figure out how to stand on your own two feet. Because nobody is coming to save you.”
Before she could answer, I hit the red end-call button, dropping her voice into the digital void forever.
I set the phone down on the counter, feeling an incredible lightness settle into my chest. The ghosts of my past—the insecurity, the exhaustion, the constant need for validation from a man who was hollow inside—evaporated in the morning light.
May you like
“Who was that?” Mother asked, walking over with a plate of leftover pancakes.
“Just a ghost,” I smiled, taking a bite of a pancake. “Come on. We have an appointment with a real estate agent at ten. Time to look at that house with the big backyard.”
