**Diary Entry**
*10th June*
*”And this is my wifemy greatest disappointment,”* my husband introduced me to the guests at his anniversary party. He shouldnt have.
The room buzzed like a disturbed beehive. Glasses clinked, laughter tangled with music, thickening the air. Adrian, my husband, led over his old business partnera solid man in an expensive suit. Adrians grin was wide, predatory.
*”This is my wife,”* his voice cut through the noise, pausing for effect. *”My greatest disappointment.”*
The words dropped into sudden silence. Even the music stuttered.
I smiled. The corners of my lips lifted automatically, stretching my face. I even nodded at Adrians partner, Mr. Edward Whitmore, who stared at me with undisguised horror.
*”Pleasure,”* I said, my voice eerily calm.
Adrian clapped my shoulder, pleased with his *brilliant* performance. He thought it was witty. The height of his humour.
Those words haunted me all evening. They didnt wound meno. They became a tuning fork, sharpening my perception. I watched him as if for the first time. There he was, laughing too loudly at his own jokes, throwing his head back. There, slinging an arm around his nephew, whispering vulgar nonsense about women.
Every gesture, every word, now stripped of familiarity. Everything painfully clear.
Later, in the kitchen as I refilled the ice bucket, he came up behind me.
*”Whats wrong, Eleanor? Cant take a joke?”* He tried to embrace me. *”It was just banter. Among friends.”*
I stepped aside gently.
*”Which friends, Adrian?”* I asked quietly. *”Half these people are your colleagues. Including your boss.”*
He winced as if struck by a toothache.
*”Theyve got a sense of humour. Unlike some. Never satisfied.”*
Not an apology. An accusation.
I returned to the party. Mrs. Veronica Whitmore caught my eye and offered the faintest, most sympathetic smile. That brief glance meant more than ten years of marriage.
I waited until Adrian returned to centre stage, launching into another toast about his achievements. Glasses rose, all eyes on him.
Without looking back, I picked up my small handbag and slipped out. Not just from that room thick with liesfrom his life. The door closed behind me with barely a sound.
The cool hallway air was a balm. I took the stairs, not bothering with the lift, each step distancing me from my old life. The party faded until it was gone entirely.
Outside, the city hummed, indifferent to my quiet drama. I walked without directionjust away.
My phone buzzed in my bag. Once. Twice. Three times. I didnt look. I knew.
Half an hour later, shivering by a 24-hour chemists window, I checked it. Ten missed calls from Adrian. A string of messages:
*”Where are you?”*
*”Stop this nonsense.”*
*”Eleanor, youre embarrassing me!”*
*”If youre not back in 15 minutes, Ill”*
The last one trailed off. He didnt know what to threaten. He never thought Id dare leave. I was convenient. Predictable. Part of the furniture.
I turned it off. My purse held a small stash of cashmy “emergency fund,” saved from rare gifted money over the years. I didnt trust joint accounts.
I checked into the first hotel I sawsmall, worn, with a tired woman at reception. Paid in cash for one night.
The room was cramped, smelling of bleach and old furniture. The bedsheet scratched like sandpaper. For the first time that evening, fear flickered. *What now?*
Morning came. I turned on my phone. Dozens of messagesfrom him, his mother, even mutual “friends.” All variations of: *”Eleanor, come to your senses. Adrians angry, but hell forgive you.”*
They didnt understand. *I* was the one who had to forgive.
The phone rang. *Him.* I stared at the screen, then answered.
*”Had your fun?”* His voice was artificially calm. *”Come home. Enough theatrics.”*
*”Im not coming back, Adrian.”*
*”What do you mean? Where will you go? Youve got nothing!”*
He said it with barely concealed pride. He thought he had me trapped.
*”Well see.”*
*”Will we?”* He laughed. *”Dont flatter yourself. Without me, youre nothing. Youre my greatest disappointment, remember? You cant do anything alone.”*
I said nothing. He expected tears, pleas. None came.
*”I need my things.”*
*”Fine. Ill be waiting. Well talk like adults.”* His tone softened. He thought Id surrendered.
*”No. Ill come with a constable and two witnesses. To ensure none of my things go missing. No spectacle.”*
Silence. He hadnt expected this.
*”Youll regret this,”* he hissed, and hung up.
I placed the phone down. Maybe I would. But all I felt was dizzying relief.
The constablea weary young lieutenantlistened without interest until I mentioned potential property disputes. He nodded. Routine to him.
Our elderly neighbours agreed to be witnesses. Theyd always greeted me with pity in their eyes. Now I knew why.
When we reached the flat, the door swung open before I could use my key.
Adrian stood there, in pyjamas but battle-ready. Seeing my entourage, his smirk vanished.
*”Making a scene?”* He glared past me at the constable. *”Humiliating me in front of the neighbours?”*
*”Im collecting my belongings, Adrian. Nothing more.”*
The constable cleared his throat. *”Sir, dont interfere. Your wife has every right to her possessions. Lets keep this civil.”*
Adrian stepped aside. The flat looked like the party never endeddirty plates, empty bottles. The stink of stale celebration.
I went straight to the bedroom. Boxes in hand, I packed methodically: clothes, books, toiletries. Adrian loomed in the doorway, arms folded, commentary ready.
*”I bought you that blouse. Half your wardrobes mine.”*
I ignored him. His words were just noise now.
Then, his studyhis *sanctum.*
*”I need my diploma and old sketches. Theyre in the bottom drawer.”*
*”No idea where they are. Probably tossed them.”*
But I knew better. The drawer was locked.
*”The key, Adrian.”*
*”Cant remember.”*
Years with him had taught me to notice small things. The key was in his fathers old inkwell on the deskhis *secret.*
The constable sighed. *”Sir, dont make this difficult.”*
Without waiting, I lifted the inkwell. The key clattered onto the desk. Adrian paled. His control was slipping.
He snatched the key, flung it at me.
I opened the drawer. Beneath old receipts lay my documents. As I lifted them, a slim folder spilledpapers scattering.
I bent to gather them. My maiden name jumped out. Next to it: a shell company. Contracts. Bank transfers. Large sums.
My heart stalled. Id signed none of this.
Adrian lunged, face twisted. *”Dont touch! Not yours!”*
But it was too late. My phone was already in my hand. A few blurred but legible shots before he ripped the papers away.
He shoved them back, locked the drawer.
*”Done? Get out.”*
I lefthis study, his flat, his lifefor good.
Outside, I thanked the constable and neighbours. Alone with my boxes, I felt both fragile and stronger than ever.
An unknown number had texted:
*”Eleanor, this is Edward Whitmore. My partners behaviour was unacceptable. If you need a good family solicitor, I recommend one. No questions asked. Mention my name.”*
A number followed.
I sat on a park bench, enlarging the photos. Numbers, signatures, stamps. I understood little, but one thing was certain: this wasnt just a divorce. It was war. And Id just found my weapon.
The solicitor, Mr. Andrew Hartley, had a quiet office and calmer eyes. He listened as I recounted the last two days, then examined the photos.
*”Your signatures?”*
*”No. Never seen these.”*
He nodded. *”This isnt just asset division. This is tax evasion. Fraud. Forgery.”*
He laid out two options: involve the authorities, or use it as leverage for a favourable settlement.
*”The second,”* I said. *”I dont want his blood. I want my life.”*
Negotiations took weeks. Adrians slick solicitor blustered, threatened countersuitsuntil Mr. Hartley slid the printouts across the table.
That evening, Adrian called, meek. *”Eleanor, why this? Were family. Couldnt we just talk?”*
*”We tried. You called it hysterics.”*
*”I was wrong. Take it back. Ill give you money. A flat. A car.”*
Still bargaining. Still thinking everything had a price.
*”Your solicitor has my terms. All communication through them.”*
The agreement gave me the flat, the car, half the offshore sumsmoney I never knew existed. In exchange, I “lost” the evidence.
At the signing, Adrian looked aged, hollow. He avoided my eyes, all arrogance gone.
*”Happy now?”* he muttered afterward. *”Youve ruined me.”*
*”No, Adrian. You did that yourself. The moment you decided I was just a thing to mock for applause.”*
He flinched. I walked away.
Three years later, sunlight floods my new homefloor-to-ceiling windows overlooking pines. The air smells of wood and paint.
The settlement money became my architectural firm, *Luminous Spaces.* My first client? Edward Whitmore. Hed cut ties with Adrian, wanted a house *”where the air is easy to breathe.”*
At a site visit, I ran into Veronica Whitmore. She didnt recognize me at first.
*”Eleanor? My God, youre glowing!”*
Over tea, she told me Adrian had been let go soon after I left. *”Edward showed the board some documents… They let him resign. He tried starting his own firmfailed.”*
She hesitated. *”I saw him recently. Aged terribly. Married someone younger. She complains hes not what he seemed. Calls him her greatest disappointment.”*
She glanced at me, wary. But the words didnt hurt anymore. Just echoes.
*”Fitting,”* I said softly.
That evening, I sat on the terrace of a finished project, watching the sun gild the pines. No new relationshipsjust peace. Work, travel, real friends.
I thought of Adrian without bitterness. Not a monsterjust a small man who built himself up by tearing others down.
He lost not because I was stronger, but because he never learned: when you diminish someone, you destroy yourself first.
I sketched a new designlight, airy, like my life now.
No longer someone elses project. I was the architect. Building my own reality.
