The apartment was quiet after Leah left for work.
Daniel stood in the middle of the living room, unmoving, staring blankly at the dishes she had left behind—the coffee mugs, the half-eaten toast. The soft light from the window cast long shadows across the floor.
Everything looked normal.
But nothing felt normal.
He sat down on the edge of the couch, his hands clasped together. For a long time, he didn't move. Just breathed.
What now?
The question circled his thoughts like vultures.
He had seen it with his own eyes. Not a rumor. Not a suspicion. A kiss. A hotel. Her smile in another man's arms. And still… he had said nothing. Slept beside her in silence. Let her go to work with a lie on her lips and guilt in her eyes.
Should I confront her?
The thought was sharp, dangerous. But also pointless.
She had already chosen. She had broken something sacred, not just in action—but in intention. Leah didn't just betray him; she knew what she was doing, and she did it anyway.
Knowing it would hurt me. And she did it anyway.
That was the thought that hurt most.
He looked around the apartment—his home—their home. The photos. The gifts. The quiet traces of their shared life, now dimmed and hollow.
He stood up, took his keys, and left.
---
The law firm sat on the fifth floor of a glass-paneled building downtown. Polished floors, quiet halls, a receptionist who spoke with gentle efficiency. It didn't take long before Daniel was led into a spacious office lined with dark bookshelves and soft leather chairs.
The man who greeted him was Evans Blake, a well-dressed, middle-aged lawyer with graying temples and eyes that had seen more broken marriages than he could probably count.
"Mr. Raymond," Evans said, offering a firm handshake. "Please, have a seat."
Daniel sat. His throat felt dry.
For a few seconds, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he began to speak.
About Leah.
About the late nights. The emotional distance. The man at the hotel.
He spoke in a calm, detached tone—as if narrating someone else's life. Evans didn't interrupt. Just listened, occasionally nodding, taking notes.
"I saw them," Daniel said quietly, eyes fixed on the desk. "Outside a hotel. Hugging. Kissing. Going in together. I recorded it. I didn't plan to… but I did."
Evans leaned forward slightly. "Do you have the recording?"
Daniel paused. "I do. On my phone."
Evans gave a short, measured nod. "Mr. Raymond… first, I'm sorry. I truly am. I wish I could say this situation is uncommon, but it's not. You should know—there's no criminal punishment for adultery in our country anymore. However, it is absolutely valid grounds for divorce."
He looked Daniel in the eye. "If you have evidence—solid evidence—you would likely not owe any alimony. You could protect your assets. The court will consider you the aggrieved party."
Daniel sat back. He felt like he was floating.
He thought of all the mornings he made her coffee. The nights he stayed awake just to see her face at the door. The sacrifices. The understanding. The love.
All of it, now, reduced to paperwork. To conditions. To clauses.
The silence stretched.
Evans didn't rush him. Just folded his hands on the table and waited.
Five minutes passed. Daniel didn't speak. He didn't cry.
He just thought.
Of how tired he had become.
Of how every moment in this marriage had slowly turned into a burden he was carrying alone.
And then, without a word, Daniel reached into his coat pocket, took out his phone, unlocked it, and placed it on the desk. He tapped the screen. The video played silently.
Leah. The man. The kiss. The hotel.
Evans leaned in, watching. When it ended, he nodded once. "That's more than enough."
There was no drama. No gavel. Just a sentence.
"The notice will be drafted today. Sent in two days."
Daniel nodded.
He rose to leave.
---
Outside, the air felt… strange.
It wasn't peace. Not really.
But something inside him had shifted.
He still felt hollow. The ache hadn't gone. But alongside it, quietly and almost imperceptibly, was the beginning of something else:
Freedom.
Not the joyous kind. Not yet.
But the kind that comes from no longer clinging to what is already gone.
---
He returned home just after sunset.
The lights were on. A bag was set near the shoe rack.
Leah had returned, not long before.
He closed the door quietly behind him.