Part 2The Ghostwriter Takes Back Her Voice

I unlocked the door to our rented apartment.

The apartment was pitch black.

I didn't bother turning on the lights, navigating by the pale moonlight spilling through the window. As I walked into the living room, my toe kicked against something heavy and metallic.

I looked down.

It was the custom tuning fork I’d had made to help preserve his vocal cords.

It lay there, discarded like a piece of garbage next to the bin.

A year ago, when Gilbert’s vocal cords were severely strained, I had spent an entire month's salary and searched the whole city to find a craftsman who could make it. At the time, he’d held me and cried, saying it was the most thoughtful gift he’d ever received.

Now, it was coated in a layer of dust.

Meanwhile, right in the center of the coffee table, sat a polished velvet box.

Inside was a diamond-encrusted tie clip Cynthia had gifted him.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. Gilbert’s name flashed across the screen again.

I picked up.

"Maeve, where the hell are you?" he demanded. "I told you to drive Cynthia home. Do my words mean absolutely nothing to you?"

I stared down at the dusty tuning fork on the floor. "I’m at the apartment."

"You seriously went home?" Gilbert’s voice was sharp, grating. "Because you didn't show up, Cynthia had to hire a random driver. She threw up all over her back seat. Are you happy now?"

I let out a cold laugh. "Why would I care if she threw up?"

"You’re her assistant! Taking care of her is your job!"

"I am your wife, Gilbert. Not her assistant."

"Maeve, can you stop throwing the word 'wife' in my face?" Gilbert sounded utterly exhausted and annoyed. "Aside from that piece of paper, what have you actually done for me? Can you afford a diamond ring? Can you afford a real wedding? You can’t even buy yourself a decent necklace!"

My eyes drifted back to the velvet box on the table.

"You're right. I can't," I said. "Is that why you keep the necklace Cynthia gave you sitting right in the middle of our coffee table?"

"Are you going through my things now?" he snapped, instantly defensive.

"It’s in plain sight. I’d have to be blind to miss it."

"Maeve, stop making a scene out of nothing. It was a professional thank-you gift. Cynthia isn't petty like you. She knows we're married, which is why she bought us a matching set. Think of it like siblings."

I froze.

"Matching?"

"Yeah. One for her, one for me," he said, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "It’s about team solidarity. You’ve never worked in a real corporate environment, so you wouldn't understand."

Listening to his self-righteous justification, the sheer absurdity of it washed over me.

"Gilbert, you are wearing matching couple's necklaces with your ex-girlfriend, and you’re calling it 'team solidarity'?"

"Why does your mind always have to go to such a dirty place?" he groaned. "We are strictly professional. There is absolutely nothing going on. If you’re going to keep being this paranoid, we might as well not even live together."

I took a slow, deep breath.

"Fine."

"What?"

"I said fine. Let's not."

"Oh, here we go again," Gilbert sneered. "Every time we have a fight, you bring up divorce. Don’t you get tired of the same old routine?"

"This time is real. The signed papers are on the nightstand. I've already signed my part. You can do whatever you want with them."

"Maeve! You think you're so smart, don't you? You think I won't sign them?"

"Go ahead. Sign them, and we'll go straight to the court."

In the background, Cynthia’s slurred, whiny voice drifted through the speaker. "Gilbert, my head hurts so bad..."

Gilbert’s tone shifted instantly to frantic worry. "Cynthia, sweetie, just lie down. I’ll get you some warm water and honey." Then, turning back to the phone, his voice went cold and dismissive. "Maeve, I don't have time for your drama right now. Show up at the office tomorrow morning at eight and apologize to Cynthia. If you don't, don't expect another dime of your retainer."

I listened to him, but for the first time in three years, I didn't feel the familiar panic. I didn't feel the urge to beg or explain.

"Gilbert."

"What?"

"I hope you have the life you deserve."

I hung up and immediately blocked his number.