Chapter 7: When the Dead Man Returned

Olivia died seven weeks after the ceremony.

I learned about it from Ethan's attorney. By then, the investigation into his fraudulent death had become impossible to contain. The Blackwood board suspended him from executive authority. Insurers threatened civil action. His family, who had genuinely mourned him, refused to speak to him.

I expected satisfaction.

I felt almost nothing.

My divorce moved forward. Ethan's attorneys initially requested delays because of his unusual legal status. My lawyer opposed them, and the court agreed.

For once, Ethan's chaos did not become my responsibility.

He returned to New York on a gray Monday morning.

Reporters surrounded Blackwood Tower. Photographs appeared online within minutes. Ethan looked thinner, exhausted, and older.

I closed the article and went back to work.

During the months since leaving him, I had accepted a consulting position with a nonprofit operations group. The salary mattered less than the fact that the work belonged to me.

No one introduced me as Ethan Blackwood's wife.

No one expected me to remember another adult's breakfast.

At five-thirty, reception called.

"Ethan Blackwood is here. He says he needs to see you."

"Does he have an appointment?"

"No."

"Then I can't see him."

He waited anyway until security asked him to leave.

My phone rang from the sidewalk.

"You had security throw me out?"

"They removed an uninvited visitor."

"I'm your husband."

"Temporarily."

He went silent.

"Can we talk?"

"Through our attorneys."

"Not about the divorce."

"Then no."

His voice dropped. "I buried Olivia three days ago."

I looked through my office window.

"I'm sorry she died."

He seemed surprised. "You are?"

"I never wanted her dead, Ethan. I wanted her to stop hurting me. Those are different things."

He breathed slowly into the phone.

"She told me what she did to your journal."

"I know."

"She told me about your hand too."

My fingers curled instinctively.

"And?"

"I should have seen it."

"You did see enough. You simply chose the version that required the least from you."

"I was wrong."

"Yes."

My simple agreement seemed to hurt him more than anger would have.

"Can I see you once?"

"Why?"

"Because I need to say some things face-to-face."

"Write them down."

I ended the call.

That evening, he was waiting outside my apartment building in the rain.

He had no driver and no security. Months earlier, the sight of Ethan waiting for me would have sent my heart racing.

Now I only felt tired.

"Five minutes," he said.

I glanced at the doorman. "Five."

Ethan swallowed. "I read your journal."

My expression hardened. "You had no right."

"I know. Olivia had already read parts of it. After she died, I found the rest. I wanted to understand James."

"You don't get to understand him by invading me."

"I know that too."

Rain hammered the street beyond the awning.

"You loved him," Ethan said.

"I did."

"And when you met me, you saw him."

"At first."

"I hated that when I found out."

"I noticed."

He lowered his eyes. "Then I kept reading. The later entries weren't about James."

My chest tightened despite myself.

"They were about me. The first time I remembered your birthday. The night I came home because you were sick. Things I didn't even remember doing."

"Don't romanticize crumbs because you're hungry now."

He flinched.

"You're right."

That surprised me.

"I thought because you were always there, you would always be there," he said. "Your care became something permanent in my mind. Like the lights turning on when I entered a room."

"That's not love."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I do now."

He looked toward the street. "When Olivia came back sick, I felt responsible for her. Then the doctors said she was dying, and everything became about giving her whatever she asked for."

"Including my husband."

He closed his eyes.

"I told myself you would recover from whatever happened."

The admission was so revealing that I almost pitied him.

"Exactly," I said. "You believed I could survive anything you did to me, so hurting me became convenient."

His face went pale.

"I didn't think of it that way."

"That's the problem."

"The fake death was unforgivable."

"Yes."

"I thought I could return afterward and fix everything."

"You thought I would still be waiting."

His silence answered.

"You expected to bury one relationship and return to the other."

"I was wrong."

For years, I had wanted Ethan to admit that.

Now it changed nothing.

"Your five minutes are over."

"Amelia, is there really nothing I can do?"

I studied his face.

He resembled James less than ever.

"There is one thing."

Hope appeared instantly in his eyes.

"Anything."

"Sign the divorce agreement without fighting me."

The hope disappeared.

"That's what you want?"

"Yes."

"And after that?"

"We live separate lives."

His mouth tightened. "I don't know if I can do that."

"You already did, Ethan. You just called it dying."

I walked into the building.

This time, he did not follow.

The next morning, my attorney called.

Ethan had instructed his legal team to stop contesting the divorce.

He waived any claim to my apartment and agreed not to seek a confidentiality clause preventing me from speaking about his deception.

I read the proposal twice.

Then I signed.

The marriage that had consumed three years of my life was finally approaching its legal end.

But Ethan's regret was only beginning.