Chapter 1: The Last Straw

Marcus Ellison’s mistress had run off again.

The news shot through his veins like a jolt of cold coffee. Marcus was a mess—pacing his study at 2 a.m., wild-eyed. His voice was sharp and clipped, each call a demand: “Find her. Now.” He yanked on a jacket and barked at his driver, urgency echoing from the old grandfather clock in the foyer.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes wild, and dialed his crew—no one dared ignore his call at this hour.

There was a raw edge to his movements—Marcus never did anything halfway. The night air was thick with humidity as he slammed the front door and stormed down the porch steps. The guys, half-awake and shuffling in their jeans, piled into the black SUVs waiting in the driveway, engines humming low under the Spanish moss. The air outside smelled of wet grass and gasoline, headlights slicing through the sticky Georgia dark. Nobody dared ask questions. When Marcus was like this, you just moved.

He drove down to Savannah himself to bring her back.

He didn’t trust anyone else to handle it. He gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles white, as the headlights cut through the back roads out of Maple Heights. Savannah’s neon haze grew on the horizon, that city always a little too bright, a little too easy for someone to disappear in.

This time, he swore, he’d make it official.

He muttered it under his breath—a promise or a threat. He’d make her stay. Marcus had made up his mind: things wouldn’t be messy this time. He’d settle it, one way or another.

Before leaving, he let me know.

He didn’t even look up from his phone when he told me he’d be gone for a while. Just dropped the info like it was a grocery list, and I was supposed to pick up eggs and milk.

"Honey, could you... come home a little earlier tonight?" I asked him quietly.

My voice was softer than I meant. The kitchen lights flickered overhead, catching the tired lines under my eyes. I clutched the manila file, heart pounding a little too fast, searching his face for something—anything.

He snatched the file from my hands, impatience sharp in his voice:

"Home, home—what, you miss me already?"

He didn’t even glance at me. It stung more than it should’ve. His signature scratched across the paper with a flick, like an afterthought. Paperwork was nothing to Marcus—just another thing to check off the list.

He scribbled his signature, tossed the file aside, and strode out the door.

The heavy front door thunked shut behind him, the old brass handle rattling. I stood frozen, the file suddenly heavier in my hands, as if it contained every word we’d never said. The silence stretched around me. I could hear his engine starting outside, tires crunching on the gravel driveway, fading into the humid Georgia night.

He was in such a rush, he never even noticed—

what he’d just signed was the divorce papers between us.

The folder sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, almost glowing in the lamplight. I touched it with the tip of my finger. That was it. Quiet, neat, final. A signature, and everything else would unravel.