Divorce

Gabrielle stood at the edge of the grand staircase, suitcase by her side, eyes full of unshed tears and a strength she didn’t even know she had until heartbreak carved it into her. She didn’t expect him to stop her. Not after everything. But then she heard it.

“Gabby.”

That voice—low, certain, and weary from carrying years of someone else’s lies—called her back.

She turned slowly. Phil stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on her like she was his gravity.

“I choose you,” he said. No preamble. No apology. Just truth. “I should have done it the first time I saw you smile.”

Carina was upstairs, supposedly asleep. But if rage had a scent, it would’ve drifted down those steps like expensive perfume laced with venom.

The days that followed were colder than any winter Gabrielle had ever known and she had lived in Minnesota all her life. Carina didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg.

No, her warfare was elegant and petty.

Gabrielle’s favorite teacups disappeared from the kitchen. A silk blouse ended up “accidentally” stained with wine. Invitations to charity galas had Gabby’s name conveniently omitted.

When Phil was around, Carina was cordial. Smiles. Sweetness. “Can I get you something, darling?” But the minute his back was turned, her eyes would cut through Gabrielle like glass.

Gabby stayed silent—until Rhonda, the chef and honorary house guardian, had enough.

“Mr. Phil,” Rhonda said one evening, her voice low, hands on her hips as she looked him dead in the eye. “I respect you. Lord knows I do. But if you let that woman destroy another ounce of Gabrielle’s peace, I’ll personally salt your chicken for the rest of your life.”

Phil blinked.

“She put bleach in her detergent, sir. That woman is dangerous and petty.”

That was the tipping point.

"She did what??" he hissed. Right then and there he made the decision to move out. Rhonda decided to leave too, as well as all the housekeeping staff.

"We go where you go,Mr. Phil." Were their exact words.

The very next morning, Mike—the sharp, no-nonsense lawyer who always wore black suits and judgment like cologne—showed up at the mansion with a manila envelope and zero pleasantries.

Carina’s blood-red lips curled into a cold smile when she saw him. “Can I help you?”

“You’ve been served,” he replied, placing the papers in her hands like he was dropping a bomb laced with freedom and finality.

“You’re kidding.” She didn’t even blink.

Mike didn’t flinch. “Phil is moving out today. Gabrielle too. The house is yours for now. But the marriage? That’s over.”

Carina stood frozen in the grand foyer, her nails digging into the documents as Phil walked past her without a glance. He didn’t owe her one.

Gabrielle followed close behind, a silent pillar of grace in a white linen dress, her head held high like a woman who had fought hell and chose not to burn.

The house Phil bought wasn’t a mansion. It didn’t need to be. It was warm, light-filled, tucked behind a grove of lemon trees with a porch swing Gabrielle instantly claimed as her reading spot.

As they unpacked, Phil paused in the doorway of their new bedroom, watching her hum to herself as she folded sweaters.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Gabby turned to him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I am now.”

He crossed the room in two steps, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and rested his chin on her shoulder. “I’m sorry it took me this long to get it right.”

“You got it right now,” she whispered.

And for the first time in a long time, Phil believed he was finally home.