But something flickered beneath the surface.
A fracture.
“Remorseful enough,” he continued, “that I checked myself into rehab three weeks after you disappeared.”
Rehab.
I hadn’t expected that word.
His gaze held mine.
“Four years, Elena. I’ve been trying to rip my own heart out as punishment.”
He swallowed once.
“I know forgiveness is impossible. But...”
A pause. “You’re still my wife.”
The word hit.
Not emotionally. Provocatively.
I let out a low, bitter hum that disguised the way my chest tightened.
“Good thing you know forgiveness is impossible.”
I tilted my head slightly.
“I’ll file for divorce first thing tomorrow morning.”
His expression didn’t collapse.
It simply went still.
He kept watching me.
Not as a man pleading. Not as a husband demanding.
But as someone attempting to decode my transformation.
His eyes scanned my posture. My tone. My control.
“Yannis needs you,” he said quietly.
The name struck deeper than anything else he had said tonight.
Yannis.
His son.
I smirked — deliberately.
“The same Yannis you cut off from me completely?”
His jaw flexed.
“The one you made sure stayed away so it would be easier to get rid of me?”
