His Three Minutes Cost Him His Wife Chapter 07

His Three Minutes Cost Him His Wife Chapter 07

Two months slipped by before I relocated to Savannah, a quiet artistic coastal town in the 

American South. 

I picked up freelance interior design commissions and partnered with Evan Carter to open a small 

local studio. 

My daily routine settled into gentle, calm rhythm. 

I woke at seven each morning, cooking farm fresh free–range eggs and toasting sourdough toast for breakfast before walking twenty minutes to the 

studio on foot. 

I headed straight home once dusk hit, occasionally picking up a downtown deli hot 

platter to eat alone out on my balcony. 

The day Nico tracked me down, I knelt inside Alder Design Tile Gallery running my fingertips over 

matte ceramic tile and glazed polished tile 

samples. 

Evan stood beside me stacking heavy sample. 

crates onto a rolling cart, lifting tile slabs one by 

one for me to inspect. 

I lifted a tile to examine its grain pattern, a faint 

soft smile tugging at my lips–until I glanced twenty yards across the showroom floor and locked eyes with Nico. 

He wore an unzipped gray overcoat, the collared shirt underneath wrinkled and unironed. His hair had grown longer, messy bangs falling across his forehead, blown upward by wind only to fall back down again. 

He stood motionless, hands hanging loose at his sides, no wave, no shout to catch my attention. 

I froze mid–movement. 

Evan followed my line of sight toward the man standing far across the tile shop. 

“You know him?” 

“We were married once.” 

I didn’t step forward to greet him. Nico walked toward me slowly, stopping only once he stood 

directly in front of my spot by the tile racks. 

He glanced first at the tile clutched in my palm, 

then shot a quick assessing look at Evan, before 

finally focusing all his attention back on my face. 

“Clara.” 

“How did you find me here?” 

“I needed to talk to you about everything between 

us.” 

“There’s nothing left to discuss. I laid every last thought out in that letter I sent months ago.” 

Evan stepped half a pace forward to stand slightly in front of my body. 

“Who’s this?” 

I glanced at Evan then turned back toward Nico. “My ex–husband.” 

Legally we’re still bound by marriage; he only signed the separation paperwork, the court official divorce finalization decree never submitted to 

county court yet. 

But emotionally, our marriage died a long time. 

ago. 

It ended the night I watched his silhouette behind pink bedroom curtains tangled up with another 

woman. 

Nico’s lips pressed into a thin tight line at Evan’s 

protective stance beside me. 

“Clara, I won’t submit the divorce paperwork to the 

county clerk’s office. You’ll sign the full decree 

eventually.” 

I turned my back to walk away, pausing a few 

steps ahead without spinning around to face him. 

“Nico.” 

“Do you know exactly which migraine relief oral 

tablets my doctor prescribes for my chronic 

headaches? Are you aware I suffer severe almond 

allergies? You can’t even recall the name of my 

primary care physician. All this time later you’re 

trying to say you’re sorry–but what exactly are you 

apologizing for? You never once bothered to learn 

the smallest, most basic details about who I truly 

am.” 

I kept walking forward, no footsteps chasing after 

me from the tile gallery behind. 

That evening, Evan drove me back to my Savannah apartment and parked curbside downstairs. 

“Want me to walk you up to your door?” 

“That’s alright, I’ll manage alone.” 

I climbed the apartment stairs, my phone buzzing 

with a new text from Evan. 

[Are you holding up okay?] 

I sent back a single word reply: [Fine.] 

I pushed open my apartment front door, hanging 

my outer coat over a dining chair before filling a 

kettle with tap water to boil. 

I poured steaming liquid into a ceramic mug, gripping the warm ceramic between my palms as I 

sat on the sofa. 

The water grew cold while I stared blankly at the floor, replaying Nico’s defeated, empty expression in my head on a loop. 

Eight full years. Twenty–nine hundred separate 

three–minute phone calls he’d dedicated entirely to 

Serena. 

When he finally tracked me down across state 

lines, he couldn’t form a single coherent sentence 

to explain himself to me.