That night, they fought like strangers. Vincent pleaded, begged her to consider options. But Linda wouldn’t bend. “They’re ours, Vincent,” she said. “All of them.” But they weren’t his yet—not really. He couldn’t see himself in the chaos she embraced. So before the sun rose, he packed a bag and vanished.
Now, sitting on that creaky plastic chair in his Ibiza apartment, Vincent opened Facebook with trembling fingers. His heart pounded as he typed her name: Linda McIntyre. He’d hoped she’d moved on. Maybe she hadn’t followed through. But part of him—a part he’d spent decades trying to silence—desperately needed to know.