Chapter 8
Six months after the court ruling, I got a call from an unknown number late one night.
I was in bed, reading, the kids asleep down the hall.
I frowned, picking up the phone.
“Hello?” I said.
There was silence on the other end for a long moment.
Then a voice, slurred and broken, came through the receiver.
“Hey.”
It was Julian.
My blood ran cold.
How had he gotten my number?
Was he back in Madrid?
I sat up, reaching for my phone to call the police.
“How did you get this number?” I said, my voice sharp.
Julian laughed, a wet, miserable sound.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m not in Spain. I’m back home. In the apartment. Well, what’s left of it.”
He paused, hiccuping.
“Everything’s gone,” he said. “My business partners left when the scandal broke. Bianca sued me for emotional distress, took every penny I had left. The bank foreclosed on the house. I’m living in a studio apartment above a laundromat. I have nothing. No one.”
He started crying, loud, heaving sobs.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasped. “I was so stupid. I threw away the only good things I ever had. You, the kids, everything. I called them dead weight. I hurt Leo. I was a monster. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I just… I needed you to know I know I messed up. I know I deserve everything that’s happened to me.”
I sat there, quiet, listening to him cry.
A year ago, I would’ve screamed at him.
I would’ve told him he got what he deserved, that I hoped he suffered for the rest of his life.
But now?
I felt nothing but a quiet, empty pity.
He’d spent his whole life chasing status, chasing an heir, chasing the perfect image of success.
And he’d ended up with nothing.
Alone.
Drunk.
Calling his ex-wife in the middle of the night because he had no one else to talk to.
“Get help, Julian,” I said, my voice calm. “You need to get sober. You need to work through your issues. Not for me. Not for the kids. For you.”
I paused.
“And don’t ever call this number again. If you do, I’ll call the police and have you charged with violating the restraining order. This is the last time we speak.”
I hung up, blocking his number before he could say anything else.
I set my phone down on the nightstand, staring at the ceiling.
I didn’t feel triumphant.
I didn’t feel vindicated.
I just felt… free.
Free of his anger.
Free of his drama.
Free of the weight of what he’d done to us.
The next morning, I told Lila about the call over coffee.
She frowned, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand.
“Are you okay?” she said.
I nodded, smiling.
“I’m great,” I said. “It’s like a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying finally lifted off my shoulders. He’s not my problem anymore. He never will be again.”
That afternoon, we went house hunting.
We’d outgrown Lila’s small apartment, and I’d saved up enough for a down payment on a small house on the edge of the city, with a big backyard and a room for each of the kids.
We walked through the front door, the kids running ahead to explore.
Sophie ran into the kitchen, pointing at the back door.
“Look, Mom!” she yelled. “A garden! We can plant flowers! And a treehouse!”
Leo ran into the living room, spinning in circles.
“Big enough for soccer practice!” he yelled.
I stood in the doorway, looking around at the empty rooms, sunlight streaming through the windows.
This was ours.
No Julian.
No drama.
No fear.
May you like
Just us.
“I love it,” I said, turning to the real estate agent. “We’ll take it.”
