And I don’t want her to go back to that dark headspace either. I know how hard she’s worked to be happy, to find what works for her. What a fuckup I am for not considering that.

Fuck.

I rub my hand across my forehead as I stare at her, the one single human I’ve ever truly loved to my core. How could I just let her go without a fight? Without trying to fix things?

Because, I caused them.

It’s hard to realize as a wife that you come second, that your opinion doesn’t matter, that you will and can be forgotten. I never had a say, and I hate that I married into that same situation.

I think the answer is clear.

I can only let her go because I love her, which means I want better for her.

And even though it’s painful, I don’t think that’s me.

That sensation of being so . . . abandoned is what I’ve been feeling for months. With you.

I hate that I have caused her to feel so alone and abandoned. There’s only one way I can fix that, it seems.

“Okay,” I say.

Confused, she asks, “Okay, what?”

But I don’t answer her. Instead, I go up to my room and retrieve the divorce papers from my nightstand. I pick up the pen, and with a tight throat and a broken heart, I sign my name.

I take the papers back down to her bedroom, where she’s now sitting on her bed, looking confused.

“Here.” I hand her the papers. “I want you to be happy, Myla, and I should have realized that earlier before putting my feelings ahead of yours and making us go through these three weeks of hell. It’s done no good, and I want you to know there are no hard feelings. I know what I’ve done, I know the damage I’ve created, and I just hope . . .” My voice catches in my throat as my eyes start to water. “I just hope that one day, when you’ve created the life you deserve, and that beautiful smile has returned to your face, you can forgive me.”

Her eyes fall to my signature. “Ryot . . . I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “There’s no reason for you to be sorry. You did nothing wrong. You fought for us when I was too blind. Thank you for putting up with me.” I take a step back and stick my hands in my pockets. “And about tomorrow and Napa, don’t worry about it. I’ll just tell everyone that you had to be with a friend. Go visit Nichole. Be with her.”

“Ryot, I can go. It’s not a big deal.”

I shake my head. “It’s best you don’t.” And then with that, I head upstairs, where I lie flat, unmoving, staring at the ceiling, wishing like hell I could turn back time.

Her truth, the reason we’re getting a divorce is because of me.