Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 232

She’d finally managed to break free.

Scrolling up through Theodore’s messages, she saw there were dozens—every single one sent tonight.

She couldn’t even muster the energy to read them all. Instead, she replied with a single line:

Theodore, I’ve already said everything I needed to say. Unless you’re agreeing to the divorce, please don’t message me again—I won’t read it.

As soon as she hit send, Theodore shot back:

You’re threatening me with divorce? Do you really think I’m afraid to end things with you?

She wasn’t threatening him—she was tired of explaining that.

Theodore, the divorce papers are at the house. I’m sure you’ve seen them by now. If you’re really not afraid, then let’s do it—no drama. When I get back, we’ll sign.

Okay.

After he sent that one word, Emma finally exhaled. Fine. As long as he agreed, that was enough.

But, right after the “okay,” he sent two photos. One was of him and Cecilia smiling together in front of the oceanfront villa. The other was inside the house she and Theodore had shared for five years—a cozy dinner scene, Theodore and Cecilia at the dining table. If Emma wasn’t mistaken, those dishes were the ones Theodore had just cooked.

Emma, I’m not such a bad catch. I won’t be alone for long.

Emma sent a nodding emoji and typed:

I wish you happiness.

Then she closed their chat for good and went back to scrolling through her social feed.

She used to be so insecure, so sensitive, always hiding in her own little world—she hardly ever looked at social media. But lately, she’d discovered a strange comfort in it.

She liked glimpsing bits of other people’s lives—a meal here, a sunset there, the quiet warmth of ordinary days. Those little snapshots of real life, so simple and vivid, made the world feel alive and welcoming.

Jared and his crowd were already blocked; whatever they said, she couldn’t see it. As for those old classmates—no one was going to comment on a photo where she wasn’t even in the picture. Who’d be rude enough to write, “Theodore, did you get a new wife?”

No one would screenshot it for her, either.

Most likely, people would just gossip quietly in their little group chats.

But in the end, she was the one who’d escaped embarrassment. Let them whisper—it wasn’t her problem anymore.

The next day was opening night.

She spent the entire day running logistics backstage, making sure everything went smoothly. When the dancers took their bows to a wave of applause, pride surged in her chest—she was part of this, too.

She wished she could be onstage again.

That thought brought her back to her recovery plan. So, when the theater was empty and everyone had gone home, she slipped into the rehearsal studio alone.