The call came out of nowhere, a voice from ten years ago. On the line, a boy’s voice, cocky and untamed, but buzzing with excitement. “Viv, ten years from now, do we have a boy or a girl?” My own voice was calm. “You’ll have a son.” He clicked his tongue, then his tone dropped into a playful whine. “My dearest Viv, you can’t love him more than you love me.” Across from me, a man in a tailored suit took a drag from his cigarette. His voice was flat. “Honey, Clara’s going into labor.” He slid a stack of papers across the polished mahogany table. “Sign them. It’s time you did some soul-searching.” I signed the divorce papers while replying to the boy on the phone. “Don’t worry. I’ll never love another woman’s son. Or her husband.” 1. The boy on the phone went silent. For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then, a raw shout exploded through the speaker. “Shit, what the hell?!” But I wasn’t listening anymore. I hung up. Then, stroke by stroke, I carefully wrote out my name: Vivian Hale. Tim Vance turned around. The years had chiseled away the wildness in his handsome features, replacing it with a cool, mature reserve. He glanced at the signature on the divorce agreement, the hand holding his cigarette freezing for a fraction of a second. After a moment, his voice, laced with sarcasm, cut through the silence. “So decisive, honey?” I put down the pen, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. “Let’s just end it. There’s no point in dragging this out anymore.” Tim’s expression flickered as he tried to gauge if I was serious. Just then, my phone began to buzz violently on the table, a relentless incoming call. He let out a short, sharp laugh, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Are you that pathetic, honey?” he sneered. “Still desperate to hear my voice from back then? This scammer, pretending to be me in high school… he must be getting a nice payday out of you, huh?” I flinched. I knew that look—that infuriating, triumphant smirk he used to provoke me. And it always worked. In the past, I’d lose it, make a scene, turn into the hysterical madwoman he seemed to expect. But why? Wasn’t this divorce what he wanted? “Yeah, you’re right,” I said, too tired to fight, too tired to even think. I pushed his hand away and calmly switched my phone off. Tim's smile faltered, just for a moment. He stubbed out his cigarette, his voice dropping to an icy warning. “It better be. Don’t let me find out you’re pulling something, Viv. You know what I’m capable of.” I dug my nails into my palm, welcoming the sharp sting of pain before I let go. Oh, I knew exactly what he was capable of. Last week, I publicly humiliated Clara at the office, announcing to everyone that the baby in her belly was Tim’s. The very next day, I was "asked" to resign and take a leave of absence. Years of hard work, of building my career, all vanished because of one tearful tantrum from his mistress. That was Tim’s punishment. I took a deep breath and watched his retreating back as he strode out of the room. He was walking so fast. He didn’t even give me a chance to tell him. Don’t call me “honey” anymore. 2. Ten years ago, I would have never believed it. That the person who would tear my life with Tim to shreds would be Clara Ross. In high school, I was the radiant swan everyone admired. And Clara? She was the school’s resident ugly duckling. Poor, plain, and hopelessly chasing after Tim Vance with a foolish, desperate passion. Just as relentlessly as Tim was chasing after me. The difference was, I eventually said yes to Tim. Clara never even got a second glance from him. That changed a year ago. Tim took me to a corporate gala. I saw her there—Clara, draped in a stunning red dress, radiating a confidence that was completely new. I also saw Tim’s throat bob, saw the flash of raw admiration in his eyes. It was so fleeting I almost missed it. But I remembered it vividly when, months later, Clara triumphantly slapped a positive pregnancy test onto my desk. Only then did I realize who the “other woman” was, the one who had turned my marriage into a battlefield. Clara stood before me like a victorious general, gloating over her conquest. “Vivian, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for years,” she’d said, a smug smile on her face. “You never really thought you were all that special, did you?” Back in high school, Tim would wrap his arms around me and joke that my fiery temper was a product of him spoiling me rotten. But that day, after Clara’s taunts sent me into a blind rage and I shoved her to the ground, his face went cold. His voice was laced with a contempt I’d never heard before. “You should take a good look at yourself in the mirror right now, honey,” he’d snarled. “Bullying a pregnant woman. Does that make you feel powerful?” 3. That fight with Tim was apocalyptic. I fell apart, consumed by a desire to destroy him, but I could never bring myself to do it. He tried to smooth things over, of course. He’d hold me, whisper promises that once the baby was born, everything would go back to the way it was. But I hated him. I hated him for betraying me, for turning our perfect, storybook romance into a cheap joke. And I hated myself even more for not being able to let him go. So we tortured each other, becoming the bitter, warring couple everyone whispered about. Things hit a new low when Clara sent me a video of her and Tim in bed. Shaking with rage, I confronted him, and it escalated into the worst fight we’d ever had. I smashed everything in the house I could get my hands on, screamed the most vile things I could think of, and even threatened to leak the video online, to ruin him completely. But Tim just sat there on the sofa, calmly smoking, a lazy, confident smile on his face. He extinguished my fury with a single question. “So what if I’m openly keeping a mistress? So what if I knocked her up, and there’s a sex tape floating around?” he asked, blowing a smoke ring. “Are you really going to leave me, honey?” I froze, an icy dread creeping through my veins, as if someone had dumped a bucket of freezing water over me in the dead of winter. All I could do was stand there and tremble. Tim laughed, his eyes full of pity and scorn. “Pathetic.” After that, he knew he had me. He bought Clara a penthouse, flew with her to Switzerland for prenatal checkups. When they found out it was a boy, he threw a lavish party to celebrate, months before the due date. He made sure the entire world knew he didn’t love me anymore. He turned me into a punchline, a cautionary tale whispered at cocktail parties. Sometimes, watching them together, so open and blissfully in love, a sliver of doubt would creep in. Maybe I was the one who should just walk away. But I couldn’t. I was too proud, too stubborn. So I stayed, rattling around in our empty mansion, slowly turning into a paranoid, obsessive mess. I just couldn’t let go. Not until the day I stumbled upon a video of an interview at our old high school. 4. Tim had taken a very pregnant Clara back to our alma mater for a donation ceremony. In the video, he was wearing a simple black windbreaker, his hair unstyled for once. He stood under the shade of a poplar tree, a faint, easy smile on his lips. For a dizzying moment, I saw the boy he used to be—the one with the cocky slouch who waited for me after class every day. Then I blinked, and the illusion shattered. I saw him gently stroking Clara’s swollen belly. A reporter asked them about their relationship. They exchanged a look, a perfect picture of domestic bliss. My eyes started to burn. I wanted to turn it off, but then I heard the reporter’s next question. “What is your biggest regret from your high school days?” Without a moment’s hesitation, Tim looked directly at Clara, his voice soft and full of meaning. “Probably that I was blind back then,” he said. “That I didn’t fall for her sooner.” He squeezed her hand. “I just hope the universe gives me a second chance. This time, let it be my turn to chase you.” Clara playfully swatted his shoulder, a shy, happy blush on her cheeks. The reporter gasped with delight. The students around them cheered. And I just stood there, frozen. The world went silent, so quiet I could hear my own heart hammering in my chest. Thump. Thump. Thump. And then, with one final, shuddering beat, it stopped. In that instant, every tower I had built inside me came crashing down. Something inside me shattered completely. It was the last, lingering piece of my obsession with the boy he used to be. I finally understood. Sometimes, letting go isn’t a process. It’s a single, blinding moment. 5. I blinked away the sting in my eyes, pushing the memories aside. Then I got up and started to systematically gather everything that belonged to Tim in the house. One by one, I carried it all out to the curb with the trash. When I was finally done, I let out a long, slow breath. I turned my phone back on. A flood of missed calls and frantic texts poured in. I knew, with absolute certainty, that the calls were from the real, 18-year-old Tim. But I felt nothing. I calmly ignored the number and called a friend back. She was inviting me to a class reunion next week. I didn’t hesitate. “Sure, I’ll be there.” As I was about to put the phone down, my eyes caught the string of desperate texts from the unknown number. [Shit, Viv, don’t scare me like this!] [What’s going on? Pick up the phone!] [Your man just ran eight laps around the track and now his heart feels like it’s gonna explode.] [If you don’t answer, I swear I’ll drop dead right here and now!!!] The familiar words hit me. He was talking about that day it poured, the day I got caught in the rain. My white shirt was soaked through, and a few guys were making lewd comments. Tim had appeared out of nowhere, his face a mask of cold fury. He’d grabbed a chair and brought it down on one of them, hard. Afterward, the coach made him run eight laps as punishment. He collapsed with a fever afterward, got seriously ill, and missed the championship soccer game he’d been training for for two years. I remembered how, besides me, Clara had been devastated. She had glared at me with pure resentment. “Can’t you just stop being such a drama queen?” she’d spat. “You love seeing him torture himself for you, don’t you, princess?” Before I could even respond, Tim cut her off, his voice sharp despite his exhaustion. “What’s it to you?” he’d snapped, looking right at her. “It’s my choice, isn’t it?” That day, Clara’s face had been even paler than Tim’s. But times change. The boy Tim from back then could never have imagined. That the thing he’d regret most in his thirties, at the height of his success, was making Clara Ross sad. 6. The reunion was already in full swing by the time I arrived. The divorce hadn’t left me with a car. So when a sudden downpour started, all I could do was hold my purse over my head and make a run for it. I burst through the doors, breathless and slightly disheveled, and my eyes immediately landed on Clara, looking immaculate and radiant. She looked me up and down, a smug, superior smile spreading across her face. “Vivian, darling. I never thought I’d see you looking so… desperate.” Laughter rippled through our old classmates. They were enjoying the show. Life is fickle. So what if Tim cheated? So what if Clara was a homewrecker? Siding with the powerful and kicking the weak—that’s just human nature. My gaze drifted past them to Tim, who was watching with a lazy, amused smirk. I dug my nails into my palm, crushing the tiny pinprick of pain in my chest. Suddenly, someone gasped. “Is that… Clara Ross?!” All eyes snapped to a phone someone was holding up. Someone had leaked the video. The video of her and Tim. A guy snickered. “Damn, and while she’s pregnant, too.” The next second, the sound of shattering glass echoed through the room as Tim smashed a bottle over the guy’s head. “All of you, shut the hell up!” he roared. But it was too late. The color drained from Clara’s face. She looked like she was about to snap. Her eyes found mine, and with a guttural scream, she hurled her glass directly at me. “You did this! You leaked it!” Tim’s face hardened as he turned to me, his voice a low, menacing growl. “Honey, did you forget what I told you?” 7. I didn’t have time to dodge. The glass shattered against my forehead, the sharp pain making me wince. The water inside splashed all over my dress, leaving me looking even more of a wreck than when I’d arrived. I pulled out a tissue, pressing it to the cut. “First,” I said, my voice steady despite the throbbing in my head, “I didn’t leak the video. Second, I’m not your honey.” Tim’s jaw tightened. He just stood there, seething, though I couldn’t tell what he was angrier about. But before he could respond, Clara let out a choked cry. The shock had sent her into labor. The room descended into chaos. For the first time, I saw panic in Tim’s eyes. He had fought too hard for this child. He swept Clara into his arms and started pushing through the crowd. As he passed me, he paused, his voice dripping with scorn. “I underestimated you. Are you satisfied now that you’ve made this mess?” He leaned in closer. “Don’t think for a second that I’ll let you off the hook if anything happens to Clara, Vivian.” I glanced at the crimson stain spreading across the tissue in my hand. Then I looked up, and I swung. My hand connected with his cheek with a loud, satisfying crack. “That,” I said, my voice ringing with clarity, “was for Clara.” Tim’s head snapped to the side. His face was a canvas of shock and disbelief. Before he could react, I shook out my stinging hand and, without a backward glance, turned and walked away. 8. The rain was still pouring outside. I stood under the awning, watching the frantic scramble of people, and answered my phone. “The money’s been transferred to your account, Ms. Quinn. A pleasure doing business with you.” “Likewise,” I said, and hung up. It was true, I hadn’t leaked the video. Not directly. A CEO’s affair and a mistress’s pregnancy—that kind of scandal could do serious damage to a company. So I simply sold it to Tim’s biggest corporate rival. After all, Tim hadn’t exactly been generous in the divorce settlement. A girl has to look out for herself. A sudden clap of thunder split the sky. “Viv! I finally found you!”
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