Chapter 27:

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The civil registry was

less dramatic than I’d expected.

No tears. No last-minute pleas. Just paperwork and signatures and a bored clerk who’d probably processed fifty divorces that week alone.

Marcos grabbed Clara’s arm, trying to pull her toward his car. “We need to talk about this—”

She yanked free. “No, we don’t.”

“Clara, you’re throwing away five years—”

“You threw them away,” she interrupted. “When you chose your brother’s obsession over your own nephew’s life. I’m just making it official.”

She got in her car. Drove away without looking back.

Marcos stood there, roses scattered at his feet, watching her taillights disappear.

Julian tried a different approach with me. Got in my car before I could stop him. Sat in the passenger seat like he belonged there.

“Adriana, I know Marcos has no excuse and his apology isn’t sincere, but I… I really want to save our marriage.”

I started the engine. “There’s nothing to fix. Get in the car.”

He was already in the car, but I think my brain had stopped processing logic at some point.

“Get out of the car,” I corrected. “Or I’m driving to the police station and telling them you’re harassing me.”

“Adriana, everyone makes mistakes.” His eyes were red-rimmed. Whether from crying or lack of sleep, I couldn’t tell. “I just made a mistake in not seeing who Selena really was. We’ve been together for eleven years. Can’t you really give me a chance to make it right? I never wanted to hurt you!”

The rest on gⲁ𝗅𝗇𝑜ν𝖊𝗅𝘀⩺𝒸𝗈𝗺

“You never wanted to hurt me?” My voice was calm. Dead calm. The kind of calm that comes after you’ve burned through all your anger and there’s nothing left but ashes. “Then why did I endure years of your coldness? Why did I end up so frightened that I went into premature labor and almost bled out? Why did I have to bury my son?”

Julian covered his face. Tears slid between his fingers.

Real tears, probably. Julian had always been good at crying when it served him.

I looked at him impatiently. “If you want to cry, do it after we sign the divorce. Don’t waste my time.”

The words echoed in my head. Not my words—his. From two years ago, after I’d found him coming back from a weekend trip with Selena. I’d cried from helplessness, and he’d said, “I have a night shift. Could you let me rest in peace?”

Funny how things come full circle.

We went to the registry. Signed the papers. Officially ended eleven years of marriage with two signatures and a date stamp.

As we left, Julian gripped my arm. Tight enough to hurt.

“I know I ruined things and lost you, but I swear I’m going to win you back.”

I pulled free. “Don’t waste your time. There’s no going back for us.”

“I don’t believe you. I won you over once, and I can do it again.”

The confidence in his voice was almost impressive. Like he genuinely believed that persistence was the same as love. That showing up was enough.

“Julian.” I stopped walking. Made him look at me. “You didn’t win me over. I was nineteen and stupid and thought love meant forgiving everything. I know better now.”

“You’re just hurt—”

“I’m done.” I got in my car. Locked the doors before he could follow. “We’re done. Accept it.”

I drove away and didn’t look in the rearview mirror.

Not because I didn’t want to see him standing there.

Because I genuinely didn’t care anymore.

Clara and I got an apartment together. A small two-bedroom in a neighborhood the Delfin brothers didn’t know about. We changed our phone numbers. Deleted our old social media accounts and made new ones under different names.

We weren’t hiding, exactly. We were just… making it difficult.

Julian still tried. Found Clara’s work number at the hospital. Called it daily until her supervisor had to intervene.

Showed up at the cemetery where Samuel was buried. Left flowers. Notes. Apologies written on expensive stationery.

I threw them all away.

The notes, I mean. I kept the flowers for Samuel.

“Is it wrong that I kind of enjoy watching them suffer?” Clara asked one night, a month after the divorce finalized.

We were eating ice cream straight from the container, watching a cooking show neither of us cared about.

“Probably,” I said. “Do you care?”

“Not even a little bit.”

We clinked our spoons together. A toast to pettiness.

Julian’s suspension from Metropolitan Hospital became permanent. Officially, it was “voluntary resignation.” Unofficially, the hospital had made it clear he’d never work in obstetrics again. Not there. Not anywhere in the state.

Mothers talk. And mothers don’t forget the doctor who let his own child die for a dog.

Marcos’s company never recovered. The environmental investigation turned up enough violations to trigger massive fines. Investors pulled out. Stock continued plummeting. Eventually, MedVita Pharmaceuticals filed for bankruptcy protection.

His house—the massive Delfin family colonial where Julian and Marcos had grown up—went up for sale. Foreclosure.

Clara and I drove by it once, just to see. There was a “SOLD” sign on the lawn.

“Think they’re okay?” Clara asked.

“Probably not.”

“Good.”

We drove to the beach instead. Spent the day doing absolutely nothing productive. Came back sunburned and happy in a way I’d forgotten was possible.

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