Chapter 11
More silence. I could hear her shifting nervously, probably glancing at him. And then, after a few moments of muffled rustling, I heard his voice.
“Sylvia, stop this. You’re being ridiculous.”
The sound of his voice–deep, familiar, and somehow still carrying that tone of authority–was enough to make my chest tighten. I had loved this man for seven
years. I had stood by him, defended him, and loved him, even when I knew he
didn’t deserve it.
But now, all I felt was numb.
“Dwight,” I said, my words clear and sharp, T’m serious. This is over. I hope you and Belinda are very happy together. You can finally be open about it.”
“Sylvia, don’t do this,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “We are not getting divorced. You don’t get to just walk away from me like this. Not after everything.”
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “After everything? You mean after five. years of being your convenient little secret while you carried on your affairs? After seven years of pretending like I didn’t see what was happening right in front. of me? You think I’m going to stay in this sham of a marriage? I’m done, Dwight.”
“Sylvia!” He shouted, his voice cracking with anger, “You’ll never divorce me. Not
in this lifetime!”
I could feel the weight of his words, but they didn’t crush me like they once would have. Instead, they washed over me like cold water, leaving me awake and alert. I was done being afraid of him, of losing him, because I had already lost him long ago.
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The Ex Husband’s Regret I Stood to Fase Overnight After Our Divorce
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Chapter 11
“Watch me,” I said quietly, and then, with one final breath, I hung up the phone.
The silence that followed was deafening, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like peace.
When I texted the director of Slow Life to apologize for missing today, I thought it would be a quick, simple exchange. After all, I hadn’t done anything seriously wrong–just canceled on one of their filming days.
So, when I saw my phone screen light up with his name, I was surprised but didn’t think much of it. Maybe he wanted to clear things up. But the moment I answered the call, the quivering voice on the other end sent an uneasy chill down my spine.
“Miss Sylvia, I–I’m so sorry,” the director stammered, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I deeply apologize for the previous oversight. We–no, I–had no idea you. were connected to Mr. Dwight in such a… significant way. If I’ve offended you in any manner, please… please forgive me.”
His voice cracked at the end of the sentence, and I could practically hear the nervous sweat rolling down his forehead. I stared blankly at my phone, watching him on the video call as his face turned paler by the second. It was as though he feared that any wrong word might lead to dire consequences. For a moment, I thought he might pass out from the stress.
“Director, what’s going on?” I asked, more out of confusion than concern at that point.
On the screen, he awkwardly scratched the back of his head, a sheepish grin plastered across his face, though it failed to mask his anxiety. His eyes flicked to the side, just out of frame, as though someone or something was standing just out of view. The frantic way his gaze darted off–camera made me think of someone standing at gunpoint, forced to read a script under threat of violence.
“Miss Sylvia, we were blind to your identity; it was entirely our fault. If we had known… if we had understood who you were associated with… we never would have “His voice trembled again, cracking under the pressure. He shifted in his
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The Ex Husband’s Regret-
Chapteril
seat, like he was on the verge of bolting from whatever was holding him captive.
My stomach twisted. This wasn’t just nervous energy. This was fear. Genuine, palpable fear. And there was only one person who could instill that level of dread: Dwight.
I pressed on, trying to make sense of it. “What do you mean? What did Dwight say
to you?”
“N–no, no, no!” He said, nearly tripping over his own words in his rush to deny it. “Mr. Dwight didn’t say anything threatening, I swear. He’s a gentleman–polite, courteous, and considerate. He’s only concerned about your well–being, Miss
Sylvia. Truly, that’s all it is. He… He wants you to rest.”
The way he stressed the word “rest” sent a chill racing down my spine. I could
hear the lie in his voice, but more than that, I could hear the terror behind it.
Dwight was behind this, without a doubt.
I could picture him, tall and imposing, standing just off–screen with that insufferably smug smile on his face, his presence alone enough to reduce the director to a trembling wreck.
“I also heard from Mr. Watson that you’re not feeling well and need to take it easy,” the director continued, his tone a little too high–pitched, a little too desperate. “We don’t want to trouble you to come back for another episode. You sho
