Part 2The Husband’s Tactics

Rina didn't come home that night.

Not a single text. Not a single call.

I didn't check. I didn't ask.

The next morning, I arrived at the company early.

Rina was the CEO; I was the Head of R&D.

In five years, we'd moved our company from a garage to a skyscraper in the heart of the CBD.

But our marriage had journeyed in the opposite direction.

With the first phase of the new drug's development complete, things were quiet for now.

I was sipping my coffee, reviewing the divorce papers my lawyer had emailed me, when Rina walked into my office.

"Miles twisted his ankle getting out of the car last night, so I stayed to look after him for a bit," she began, a practiced explanation. "It got too late, so I just crashed at a hotel nearby."

I nodded, my eyes still scanning the legal document. "Right. Got it."

We were getting divorced.

Who she slept with, where she slept—it was her business now.

She didn't need to report to me.

Rina froze, looking like she wanted to say more but held back. "Let's do dinner tonight. You're the hero behind this new drug. You deserve a proper celebration."

She paused, glancing at me. "Should we invite Miles? I think you two should talk. He was just a kid when your mother passed away, after all."

Hearing her try to whitewash Miles's actions made my hand freeze for a fraction of a second.

Rage, cold and sharp, coiled in my gut. I wanted to ask her, And I wasn't a child when my mother died?

I forced the anger down with a sip of bitter coffee. "My business is my own," I said softly. "Tonight, let's just make it the two of us."

It's hard to discuss a divorce with an audience.

As for a brother?

My mother only had one son. I didn't have a brother.

Rina stared at me, then a slow smirk played on her lips, as if she thought I was jealous. She was about to say something when her phone buzzed, cutting her off.

The name 'Miles' lit up the screen. A genuine smile touched her face as she answered and hurried out of my office.

Near the end of the workday, I received a text from her: a reservation confirmation for an exclusive private restaurant.

Her way of making amends, I knew.

I printed the divorce papers, tucked them into my briefcase, and prepared to meet her.

As I left the building, her car purred to a stop beside me. She rolled down the window.

"You head home and get ready. I'm just meeting a client quickly, I'll be there soon."

The car was already pulling away before she finished the sentence.

In the past, I would have spent two hours getting ready for a date with Rina. I was clumsy with styling my hair and picking out clothes, a process that was both a chore and a joy.

This time, there was no point.

I found a nearby spa and treated myself to a deep-tissue massage, letting the tension from months of overtime melt away from my exhausted body.

When I arrived at the restaurant, Rina wasn't there yet.

I sent her a text. No reply.

I shook my head. Instead of waiting like I always did, I ordered for myself.

The restaurant's ambiance was serene, the food exquisite. A universe away from the takeout boxes I'd been eating at the office.

So when Rina never showed up, I wasn't angry.

She had already betrayed seven years of our life together. What was one missed dinner?

She didn't know it, but her signature on those divorce papers would be the only compensation I needed.