Chapter 6

After getting the divorce certificate, I stood on the curb, trying to hail a cab.

Sophia pulled up beside me. "Where are you going? I'll give you a ride."

I looked at her, my meaning clear. "Miss Vance, I'm divorced from Jessica now."

"And?"

"And that means we're strangers. There's no reason for us to interact."

Sophia slid her sunglasses down her nose, revealing a pair of mesmerizing, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with amusement. "First of all, it's Sophia. Second, I wasn't helping you because of Jessica. I helped you because what she did was disgusting."

She pushed the passenger door open from the inside. "Get in. You look like you haven't eaten in days."

She wasn't wrong. The divorce proceedings had consumed the last 72 hours of my life. I couldn't remember my last proper meal.

Against my better judgment, I got in.

She drove us to a quiet restaurant on the outskirts of town — the kind of place with white tablecloths and soft jazz playing in the background. Not the sort of place I'd normally go.

"I picked this spot because Jessica hates jazz," Sophia said, reading my expression. "Figured you could use a Jessica-free zone."

Despite everything, I almost smiled.

Over lunch, Sophia told me her story. She'd married into Jessica's family young — her late husband was Jessica's uncle, twenty years her senior. He'd passed away two years ago.

"So you're a widow," I said.

"And you're a divorcé. We're quite the pair." She raised her glass of sparkling water. "To fresh starts?"

I hesitated, then clinked my glass against hers. "To fresh starts."

The meal was simple but good. We talked about mundane things — restaurants we liked, places we'd traveled, movies we'd seen. It was the most normal conversation I'd had in months.

"Can I ask you something?" I said as dessert arrived.

"You just did, but sure."

"Why did you send me those videos? You could have stayed out of it."

Sophia set down her fork. Her playful expression faded into something more serious.

"Because I've been where you are. Not exactly — my husband didn't cheat. But he lied to me about his illness for over a year. By the time I found out, he had three months left."

She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

"Everyone around me knew. His family, his friends, even Jessica. Nobody told me. They all decided I 'couldn't handle it.' I spent a year thinking everything was fine while the person I loved was dying."

"When I saw Jessica doing the same thing to you — letting you suffer while everyone stayed silent — I couldn't just watch."

I didn't know what to say. So I said the only honest thing I could.

"Thank you."

She waved it off. "Don't go getting sentimental on me, Miller. I have a reputation to maintain."

I laughed. A real, genuine laugh. It felt foreign, like a muscle I hadn't used in months.

As we left the restaurant, Sophia tossed me her car keys. "You drive. I want to check something on my phone."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm dropping you home. Unless you've got somewhere else to be?"

I didn't. The house would be empty — I'd cleared out all of Jessica's remaining things before the funeral. But for the first time, the thought of going home didn't fill me with dread.

Sophia spent the drive scrolling through her phone, occasionally reading aloud ridiculous headlines to make me laugh. When we pulled into my driveway, she glanced at the dark house.

"You going to be alright?"

"Yeah. I think so."

She nodded, then reached into the backseat and pulled out a paper bag. "Almost forgot. The restaurant's tiramisu. I ordered an extra one for you."

"You planned that?"

"I plan everything." She slid into the driver's seat and rolled down the window. "Jacob?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going to be fine. Better than fine. Just... don't disappear into this house and become a hermit, okay? I'll check on you."

Before I could respond, she was gone, her taillights fading around the corner.

I stood in the driveway holding a bag of tiramisu, and for the first time in a very long while, I felt something close to hope.