Check the Closet

Demitri slammed the front door open, his face dark with frustration. His voice boomed through the house like thunder.

“Ashley!”

Silence.

His shoes echoed against the tiled floor as he stalked from room to room, his sharp eyes scanning for any sign of her. Nothing. The living room was pristine, the kitchen untouched, and the dining room eerily still.

“Ashley, stop playing games and get down here!” he barked, his voice ricocheting off the walls.

No response.

He yanked his phone out of his pocket and punched in her number. It rang. And rang. And rang. Straight to voicemail. He cursed under his breath and called again, pacing furiously as his patience thinned.

“Don’t make me come find you,” he muttered, dialing her again. This time, it didn’t even ring—she had sent him straight to voicemail.

Demitri gritted his teeth, his temper flaring. But before he could smash his phone against the counter, it buzzed in his hand. The screen lit up with Elena.

He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Elena,” he said, answering with a softer tone. “What’s wrong?”

Her sobbing hit him like a punch. “Demitri,” she cried, her voice shaky. “She… she said she wouldn’t do it anymore. She’s ruining everything!”

Demitri frowned, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about? Who? Ashley?”

“Yes! Call her! Fix this!” Elena’s voice cracked with desperation before the line went dead.

Demitri stared at his phone, his mind racing. What had Ashley done?

He hit her number again, and this time, she picked up.

“Where the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice sharp and cold. “What did you do to Elena?”

There was silence on the other end, a pause that made his frustration bubble over.

“Ashley!” he shouted. “Answer me!”

Finally, her calm, collected voice cut through his rage. “Check the closet.”

Demitri froze, his brow furrowing. “What?”

“Check. The. Closet,” she repeated, enunciating each word like she was speaking to a child.

Fueled by a mix of anger and confusion, he stormed upstairs, his steps heavy. He threw open the door to their bedroom and marched to the closet.

He yanked the doors open—and froze.

It was empty. Every shelf, every hanger, every drawer. Empty.

His jaw dropped, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. He stared at the barren closet like it had personally betrayed him.

Before he could say a word, Ashley’s voice came through the phone, calm and steady.

“I’m done, Demitri,” she said.

His throat tightened. “What… what are you talking about?”

“I’m done with this sham of a marriage,” she continued, her tone unwavering. “And I want a divorce.”

Demitri’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. For once in his life, he was utterly speechless.