Back home, I packed Michael’s suitcases. I didn’t expect what happened next.
Near midnight, there was a knock. Michael stood on the porch, tie undone, face pale, without his keys. Dropping to his knees, he pleaded, “Claire, please. Just listen. It’s not what you think. I was stupid.”
I crossed my arms. “I saw you. You took another woman and called her your wife.”
He rushed out an explanation. “Her name is Anna. I told her I was divorced. She didn’t know about you. When the receptionist said another woman claimed to be my wife, she confronted me. I admitted everything in front of everyone. She shoved me into a waiter. The whole room went silent. People recorded it. My boss fired me on the spot.”
For a moment, the image was almost comical—but the hurt was real.
“I lost everything tonight,” he said desperately. “But I can’t lose you. You’re the only one who matters. I’ll do anything to fix this.”
I stepped aside, revealing the suitcases. “You can come in,” I said coldly, “but only to take your things.”
He begged for a chance to fix things, but I didn’t hesitate. “Credit? You don’t deserve anything. Our marriage ended the moment you let another woman take my place.”
His silence was answer enough. I watched him gather his belongings and leave, swallowed by the night.
And for the first time in weeks, I could finally breathe.
