ManyWriters

The third instance Nicolas Reid and I found ourselves at the courthouse was due to his decision to reassign my cherished role as head meteorologist to the station's latest weather presenter.
Casually propped against his vehicle, a cigarette between his lips, Nicolas exhaled smoke and gazed at me with barely concealed annoyance.
"Is this really essential?" he questioned, his voice dismissive. "I mean, giving her your position is just a way for you to take a breather, isn't it? Heaven knows you could use one." He grinned, tapping ash onto the ground. "Plus, I only gave her the job to keep her content. Can't you just endure it? For my sake?"
I maintained a steady gaze, looking straight ahead as if his irritating words hadn't been spoken. Calmly, I responded with three short words.
"Let's go inside."
That night, I observed Nicolas with his arm around the new girl, chuckling and drinking with his companions as if without a worry in the world.
"So, what's your plan if Rowena actually follows through with the divorce?" One of his friends teased, a smile playing on his lips.
Nicolas took a long sip of his beverage, his eyes narrowing with an air of superiority.
"That's not going to happen. She cares for me too much to go through with it. She's just being dramatic. Typical her."
It wasn't until he saw me, some weeks later, seated in the back of another man's wedding car that he realized I hadn't been joking.

The Meteorologist's Revenge, Forecast for Divorce

I scowled, clutching my phone tighter. This number was recent—so recent that Nicolas shouldn't have known it.


"How did you obtain my number?" I inquired, maintaining a calm tone.


A momentary pause followed before he retorted, his voice tinged with annoyance.


"I acquired it from a family member of yours."


That seemed believable. After getting this new number, I'd contacted several uncles and relatives to inform them of my return to Eldermere. It was the courteous thing to do, especially for the older generation.


"What's your purpose?" I asked directly, disregarding pleasantries.


"I need to know your location." His voice escalated, carrying more than just frustration—something bordering on despair.


"Are you staying at the Lunaris Hotel?"


His voice quivered when posing that last question, as if dreading my answer. I didn't utter a word. Instead, I terminated the call and promptly blocked his number.


8#08