Beep. Beep.
A red light flashed.
Access denied.
She frowned.
“That’s odd,” she murmured, trying again. “Maybe it got demagnetized.”
Beep. Beep.
Still red.
A slow unease crept into her chest. She rang the doorbell. Once. Then again.
Silence.
Then—footsteps. Soft, unhurried. And the unmistakable sound of a lock turning from the inside.
The door opened.
Quacy stood there.
Her husband.
But not the man she remembered.
His eyes were cold, empty of recognition. He wore a silk robe—her robe—and on his neck, unmistakable and fresh, was a smear of bright red lipstick.
“Ah,” he said casually, almost amused. “You’re back already.”
Zelica felt the world tilt.
“Quacy…” Her voice shook. “Why isn’t my key working?”
“Because I changed the locks,” he replied flatly, his body still blocking the doorway.
From inside the apartment came laughter.
Light. Carefree. Female.
“Babe,” a voice called, playful and lazy, “who is it? If it’s a solicitor, tell them to kick rocks.”
A woman stepped into view.
Young. Stunning. Confident.
Aniya.
Zelica recognized her instantly—the Instagram model, always perfectly styled, always chasing attention online. The woman who had made her uneasy long before this moment, though she’d never been able to explain why.
Aniya was wearing Zelica’s silk robe. The one Zelica had bought herself for their wedding anniversary last year.
Aniya’s eyes slowly scanned Zelica—her wrinkled travel clothes, her tired face, her cheap suitcase.
“Oh,” Aniya said, lips curling into a smirk. “Guess it’s not a solicitor. Looks like the ex-wife.”
Ex-wife.
The word sliced through Zelica’s chest.
“Quacy… what is this?” she whispered. “Who is she? Why is she in our home? Why is she wearing my clothes?”
Quacy sighed, irritated, as if she were an inconvenience.
“This is over, Zelica,” he said. “Let’s talk downstairs. Don’t make a scene.”
He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him—locking Aniya safely inside.
Zelica followed him into the elevator in silence, her mind blank, her body numb. The faint scent of Aniya’s expensive perfume clung to Quacy’s robe, making her stomach churn.
The elevator opened into the busy lobby. People passed by. Some glanced at them, sensing tension.
Quacy led her toward a quiet corner near the glass windows overlooking Peachtree Road.
“Explain,” Zelica said, her voice barely holding together. “Please.”
“What’s there to explain?” he replied coldly. “We’re done.”
“Done?” Her breath hitched. “After ten years? After I took care of your mother when she had her stroke? After we built everything together from nothing?”
He laughed—short, cruel.
