You Left Without Your Umbrella

After our eighteenth failed attempt at divorce, Mike suddenly stopped bringing it up altogether.

It was a stark contrast to how things had been before. Every single attempt prior had ended in absolute chaos. I had slit my wrists, stood on the ledge of our high-rise, and plastered photos of him and his personal assistant all over the corporate lobby. At a press conference, I had publicly torn Islas clothes off, leaving her with severe post-traumatic stress disorder.

He should have loathed me.

Yet, the word "divorce" never crossed his lips again. He came home right on the dot every night, handed over his phone, and checked in every single hour. Even on business trips, we were on a round-the-clock video call.

But the unease in my chest never faded. Day after day, I pestered him, demanding to know why he had given up on the divorce.

He would only counter with a question: "Am I not doing enough?"

It was good. Too good to be real.

It wasnt until he caught me tailing him yet again that the exhaustion in his eyes spilled over, and he finally told me the truth.

"I got a phone call from myself, ten years in the future," he whispered. "He told me that if I divorced you, I'd regret it."

I stood there, stunned. "And you actually believed that?"

"He said you set a fire and burned Isla alive." He looked up, his eyes harboring a dark, bottomless abyss of despair. "You're too unhinged, Vivian. I can't take that risk. I can't afford to. We're staying together. This is our life now."

That one sentence, "This is our life now," pinned me to the floor like a pathetic clown. He hadn't said a word about wanting to leave, yet every syllable dripped with pure, unadulterated hatred. Those dead eyes were a blade driven straight through my ribs. It wasnt regret. It wasnt an awakening. It was sheer terror and begrudging defeat.

But this miserable, drag-out existence? Suddenly, I was done playing my part in it.

Seeing me frozen, he didn't try to soothe me as he once would have. He calmly slipped on his coat, masking his brief slip of composure, and systematically went through his schedule.

"I will arrive at the office at two. The meeting starts at three and will run for two hours." He paused halfway to the door, turning back. "By the way, I won't be able to answer any calls or video chats during that time. If you don't believe me, you can wait by the entrance."

Each word was measured, cold, and distant. Before I could even process it, the car door slammed shut. I watched his car shrink into the distance, a perfect metaphor for the chasm widening between us. The tears finally spilled over.

The day I caught Mike and Isla together, I lost my mind. I took to scrubbing his skin raw with disinfectant and scanning him with UV lights. If I found a single stray hair, I would hysterically demand DNA tests for everyone in the office. He pleaded, claiming they had been drugged, showing me security footage and blood reports, but my mind refused to accept his betrayal.

Then came the day he first slid the divorce papers across the table.

"Vivian, I'll give you eighty percent of my assets. Let's just end this. I'm so exhausted."

That night was the first time I climbed onto the roof ledge. He had dragged me back, wild with terror, screaming in absolute ruin.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Torture me, destroy me, do whatever you want to me, just don't hurt yourself! I can't survive without you!"

But why? Why was the man who claimed he couldn't live without me now begging, time and time again, for me to let him go so he could be with Isla?

The Seattle rain began to fall. I held an umbrella in my hand but forgot to open it. I suppose Mike had spoiled me over the last decade. I was so used to him driving me everywhere, holding the umbrella over my head, wiping my mouth at dinner. Even on crowded pedestrian streets, he had a way of pulling favors to park right at the storefronts I wanted to visit.

And now, it was all gone in an instant. It felt as if a physical chunk of my heart had been carved out, leaving a hollow space for the icy wind to whistle through. I couldn't even tell if the moisture on my face was rain or my own tears.

Back at the house, a fever took hold of me. In my delirious haze, Mike was right there, wiping my burning skin with warm water and checking my temperature every fifteen minutes. When his assistant called to urge him to attend a meeting, he roared into the phone, telling them to go to hell. He was always this frantic whenever I fell ill. His hand wrapping mine was incredibly warm, yet my body wouldn't stop shaking.

The phone kept ringing, and he refused to answer. But the noise was too loud, eventually dragging me back to consciousness.

The room was cold and empty. There was no one beside me. It was my own phone buzzing on the nightstand. Mike was never there.

I swallowed the metallic taste rising in my throat and answered.

"Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair didn't show up at the office today," my private investigator reported.

I froze.

"He returned briefly, then headed straight to Oakwood Sanctuary. He's been inside for over two hours now."

A wave of nausea hit me. Oakwood Sanctuary was the private care facility where Isla was staying. Mike's parting words echoed in my ears: If you don't believe me, wait by the entrance.

How could he be so sure I wouldn't show up? He said those words every single time he gave me his schedule. I had never believed him before, always choosing to wait. This was the one time I chose to trust him, and I was wrong again.

I checked the time: six in the evening. Usually, he was home by five-thirty. Since he wasn't coming back, I would go to him. In the past, every time I cornered him, he would shove the divorce papers in my face. This time, I had already signed them.

Before I could even reach Isla's room, a dozen bodyguards swarmed me, instantly on high alert.

"Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair gave strict orders. You are not allowed near Miss Isla."

Through the human wall, I caught sight of the door. A sticker of Mike and Isla, styled as cartoon puppies, was framed inside a pink heart. Below it, in playful font, were the words: Gav & Isla's Hideaway.

I forced a cold, empty laugh. "Childish."

I had once begged Mike to take those silly photobooth pictures with me. He had always dismissed it, saying a corporate CEO couldn't indulge in such nonsense. It turned out he could; he just couldn't do it with me.

Clutching my aching chest, I took a deep breath. "Get out of my way. You know what I'm capable of when I lose my mind."

With that, I pulled a small utility knife from my bag. I only meant to scare them. But in the next second, a bodyguard lunged forward, slamming me onto the hard floor. The others pinned my limbs down, trapping me completely.

"Apologies, ma'am, but Mr. Sinclair was very clear. At the first sign of an episode, we are to contain you immediately."

Another guard spoke rapidly into his radio. "Sir, your wife is here. She has a knife..."

Before he could finish, Mike's frantic voice cut through the static, sharp and panicked. "Then pin her down! Do it now! What if she hurts Isla?!"

My struggles ceased instantly.

"She is contained. Should we transport her back to the estate or lock her up here?"

The radio went quiet for two agonizing seconds. Finally, a heavy sigh crackled through. "Forget it. Bring her in."

The knife had been wrestled from my grip, but in the scuffle, the blade had sliced my wrist. As they escorted me into the room, blood dripped onto the floor. I bit my lower lip, fighting back the tears. But the moment the door swung open, I froze.

The evening sun filtered through sheer curtains, bathing a rocking chair on the balcony in warmth. Beside it stood a small side table holding a cup of steaming coffee and an open book. In the corner, a vintage record player spun a soft jazz record, Mike's favorite.

This wasn't a sterile hospital room; it was a home. Specifically, it was the exact home I had designed. Before our wedding, I had hand-drawn every detail, blending our tastes perfectly. But Mike had told me he didn't want me stressing over construction, hiring a design firm instead to build our mansion in an entirely different style. Now, the dream home I had envisioned stood right before me, serving as a sanctuary for him and another woman.

"You're here," Mike's voice drifted from behind me.

I turned, my face pale. Before I could mask my shock, he spoke again.

"Isla always loved this design, so I had it recreated for her. You don't mind, do you?"

I stared at him in disbelief. "What do you think, Mike?"

He nodded slowly. "Then tear it apart, Vivian. If it makes you happy, destroy it." He looked at my bleeding wrist, showing nothing but a flicker of disgust. "I'm used to your theatrics, and so is Isla."

He looked toward the window, his tone so calm it was as if he were merely remarking on the weather. "Look, Vivian, a rainbow."

I followed his gaze. The rain had cleared, leaving a beautiful arch across the sky. But the storm raging inside me felt like it would never end.

"Gav, sweetie, come play It Takes Two with me..." Isla's voice abruptly cut off as she noticed me. The controller slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the floor. She grabbed her head, screaming hysterically. "No! Don't strip me! Don't kill my baby! I'm a home-wrecker! I'm a mistress! I'm sorry, please... I won't do it again!"

Mike rushed over, pulling her tightly into his arms. His eyes welled with protective rage. "Shh, it's okay. Don't be afraid. I'm right here. No one will ever hurt you again."

As he muttered those soothing words, his eyes locked onto mine, burning with unmasked hatred. A laugh bubbled up from my throat, dry and hollow, until tears streamed down my face.

For a split second, I wanted to lung forward, drag Isla to the balcony, and throw us both over the edge. But my remaining sanity whispered that they weren't worth my life. I dug my fingernails into my palms, fighting the urge to drag her down with me.

I sneered, "Cut the act, Isla."

She flinched, burying her face deeper into Mike's chest. "I... I don't know what you mean."

I let out a harsh laugh. "PTSD doesn't look like that."

Mike rose, stepping in front of her like a shield. "Enough! If you want to lash out, do it to me. Stop acting like you know everything, and don't you dare slander her."

But I did know. I had lived with the disease for over a decade, ever since the day I watched my mother die. Whenever the memory of her blood pooling on the pavement flashed in my mind, I would spiral into vomiting, sobbing, and self-harm. I had never told a soul that my mother took her own life because my father had loved someone else. I had sworn I would never step into the trap of marriage. Yet Mike had staked his entire corporate future and the rest of his life to promise me he would never betray me.

I believed I wouldn't end up like my mother. But in the end, I was walking the exact same path: the screaming, the madness, the self-destruction. I was done with it.

I reached into my bag to retrieve the signed divorce papers. Mike's expression morphed into pure terror.

"What are you doing?! Grab her!"

Before my hand could leave my bag, the guards slammed me back onto the cold marble floor. Mike marched over and kicked my bag away, the force of the blow vibrating through my hands.

"As long as I draw breath, you will never lay a finger on her!"

I stared up at his face, a messy mix of terror and fury. I recalled a night when he slipped out of bed while I pretended to sleep. Suspecting he was sneaking off to see Isla, I crept after him, only to overhear him asking the receiver if the Vivian of ten years later would still be this unhinged, and if keeping himself alive was the only way to shield Isla.

I hadn't understood those hushed words then. Now, it all clicked. That was the mysterious call from his future self. He was utterly terrified of me. No matter what I did, he would assume it was a plot to harm Isla.

My cheek pressed against the freezing marble, as cold and dead as my heart. I let out a soft, tired laugh. "The papers are in my bag, Mike. I already signed them."

Mike eyed me suspiciously before rummaging through my bag. He pulled out the documents, glanced at my signature, and immediately tore them into shreds.

"I told you! I am not divorcing you!"

I looked at him calmly. "Just because of that phone call?"

Isla tugged gently at his jacket sleeve. "What phone call, Gav?"

"It's nothing," he muttered.

"But you promised to give me a home," she whimpered.

Mike's fists clenched, his face flushing crimson. "Don't ask questions. Just know I'm doing this for your own good."

Isla's eyes welled with tears. Gently wiping them away, he whispered, "I will give you everything, Isla. Everything but the title of my wife."

Those words were meant for me, too. He would give her everything, while keeping me locked in a gilded cage of a hollow marriage. It was all so incredibly pathetic.

"Just sign the papers, Mike. I'm not going to burn her alive," I said quietly. "That phone call? I hired someone to make it with a voice-modulator."

Mike went rigid, his eyes widening in pure shock. "You're lying!"

"Of course it's a lie," I muttered, turning my head away. "I was terrified you'd actually leave me, so I fabricated the whole thing."

He hesitated, his brow furrowing. "But the caller knew everything about my childhood. Things only I would know."

I scoffed softly. "I've known you for a decade, Mike. I know your secrets. I knew exactly how to play you."

Silence descended upon the room. He stared at me, his gaze intense and searching, trying to decipher my mind. I pressed my forehead against the cold floor, hiding the tremor in my lips. It was the first lie I had ever told him since the day we met.

Perhaps there really had been a call from the future. Perhaps he truly would regret everything ten years down the line. But I didn't care anymore. I was too tired.

I took a deep breath, raised my head, and masked my features with a look of pure indifference. "Well? Are we signing or not? This is your one and only chance."

Slap!

Mike's palm struck my cheek, leaving a stinging heat in its wake.

"You can play your hysterical games all you want, but this crosses the line," he snarled. "You are completely out of your mind, Vivian!"

He waved his assistant over. "Print a new set of divorce papers. Now!"

I thought my heart had gone numb, but the empty space in my chest still throbbed with a cold, sharp ache. The papers were brought in minutes later. He scrawled his name across the bottom and flung the sheets at my face.

"You'll get half the estate. I won't pinch a single penny. But remember this, Vivian: I never want to see your face again."

At his command, the guards finally released me. I scrambled up from the floor, gathered the sheets of paper, and walked out without looking back.

On the drive back, the skies opened up. The pouring rain soaked me to the bone, yet my mind had never felt clearer. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was an unknown number.

"Vivian, listen to me," a voice rasped. It sounded exactly like mine, but older, tired. "I am you, ten years from now. You must divorce Mike. But please, don't do anything stupid. Don't hurt yourself, and whatever you do, don't start a fire. If you do, he will make your life a living hell forever."

I remained quiet for a moment. "It's done," I whispered. "I've signed the papers. And I won't hurt myself."

The voice on the other end let out a long, ragged sigh of relief. "Thank God. Go live your life, Vivian. Be happy."

The line went dead. I stared at the screen and nodded.

Two phone calls from ten years in the future, warning of two entirely different fates. I had no desire to unravel the mystery of which was real. I was simply done living in fear.

Back at the estate, I packed light. A few casual clothes, my passport, and some essential documents. That was all I had to show for a decade of marriage. The painted portrait of the two of us on the nightstand stood out like an eyesore. Mike had always claimed he hated cameras, which was why we didn't have a single wedding photo. Yet, in Isla's sanctuary, every corner was decorated with snapshots of them: surfing on sunny beaches, enjoying the snow under a winter sunset. They had explored the world together while I was trapped in this dark house.

In that portrait, we looked like two fictional characters, standing side-by-side but entirely detached. I shattered the glass frame, tore the canvas right down the middle, and claimed only my half.

At the airport, my phone began to buzz. Mike's name flashed on the screen. I declined it. He called again. I declined it again. Then, the messages started flooding in.

I never told you how I got the scar on the bottom of my foot! That phone call was real, wasn't it?

You lied to me. You've never lied to me before!

Vivian! Where the hell are you?!

I powered down my phone and buckled my seatbelt. An hour ago, I had made a call to my father. Right now, his private jet was carrying me far away, heading toward a city where the sun never stopped shining.