He was your ex-husband—the kind of man whose name alone made your stomach twist. Manipulative. Unpredictable. The type who never truly let go, always finding ways to reappear in your life like a bad memory that refused to fade.

And today was no better.

You were still living at your friend Mike’s place, trying to rebuild your life piece by piece. You’d just come home from a long shift, tired but excited—tonight, for once, wasn’t about surviving. It was about moving on.

You were getting ready for a date.

The soft hum of your curling iron, the subtle scent of your favorite perfume, the clinking of jewelry—it all made the evening feel like something hopeful. Maybe even normal.

Until there was a knock at the front door.

A heavy, slow knock. One that made your heart stop mid-beat.

From the kitchen, Mike raised a brow and glanced toward you. “You expecting someone already?”

You froze. “No.”

He walked to the door cautiously, already sensing something was off.

From the other side, a voice called out:

“Who’s here?”

It was him.

Mike paused. Turned slightly to look at you with wide eyes. “It’s your husband.”

You didn’t miss a beat.

“I don’t have a husband.”

Mike hesitated, then corrected himself, “…Your ex-husband.”

You crossed the room quickly, voice sharp and cold.

“I will call the police.”

He raised his hands in surrender, stepping back. “Say the word.”

You took a breath and stared at the door, your fists clenched at your sides. The date could wait. This time, you weren’t going to let him ruin the progress you’d fought for.

Not tonight.

Not anymore.