I’m halfwaydown the hall for a shower, protein shake in hand, when the doorbell rings. Muttering a curse, I turn back toward the door. When I open it, there’s a middle-aged woman standing in jeans and a coat zipped halfway.
“Are you Jensen Adams?”
My eyes drop to the manila envelope in her hands and it guts me. “Yeah,” I reply, hesitant.
She hands it over. “Mr. Adams, you’ve been served.”
She’s already walking away before I’ve even wrapped my fingers around it.
I stand there, frozen, watching her disappear down the hall. A wave of failure and fear hits me all at once as the elevator doors slide open. She steps inside, taking whatever hope I had left for my marriage with her.
“Fuck.” I rake a hand through my hair and swing the door shut behind me.
I toss the envelope onto the counter without opening it and head straight to the shower. Peeling off my sweaty gym clothes, I step inside and turn on the water. I let the cold stream hit my back while I wait for it to warm.
Once the water’s hot, I turn toward it, spitting it out as it runs down my face. I slick my hair back with my palm, then pump shampoo into my hand. I scrub it in, and the scent hits me—Alley. The steam carries it, flooding the shower, flooding me.
“Goddammit,” I mutter. The suds run down my chest, disappearing down the drain. I look around, and a weight presses heavy on my lungs. Her shampoo. Her conditioner. Her body wash. All the scents that used to cling to me after we fucked—when I held her in bed.
It’s all still here.
I press my palm to the tile, eyes clenched shut, the water beating down like it might wash away the ache clawing at my chest. I let out a sharp breath, trying like hell to hold it together.
Maybe I’ve been blind the past three days—trying too damn hard to stay positive. I walked around this place, looked at old photos, thought about her. But now?—
She’s everywhere.
I smell her. I see her.
Fuck.I can practically feel her.
In my head, she’s right there on the other side of the glass, pushing her panties down to her ankles, lips curving as she steps in beside me, bare skin pressing against mine.
My dick twitches, and I let out a growl. My eyes snap open, and I slam the water off.
“Fuck this.” I shove a hand through my hair, then drag both down my face, squeegeeing the water from my skin. I wrap a towel around my waist and step out, leaving a trail of water across the floor.
Storming into the kitchen, I tear open the envelope and pull the papers out. A weight presses down on me instantly—like something heavy just dropped on my shoulders. My next breath is thick. Labored.
There it is.
Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.
My chest rises and falls, slow and strained. It feels like I just lost a fight I never even got to show up for.
I skim the first few paragraphs, the legal jargon blurring together.
Division of property.
No minor children.
No shared debt.
So fucking formal. Like it wasn’t a life we built—just a contract to terminate.
I guess she didn’t need to text. Didn’t need to call. Her answer’s right here.
She could’ve told her lawyer to hold off. But she didn’t.
