Divorce: The Only Way Out

Divorce: The Only Way Out

Gavin

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The launch party for my company was supposed to be the peak of my life' s ambition, but my eyes were glued to the door, waiting for my wife, Olivia. Just last week, she' d finally warmed up to me, hinting at starting a family after three years of a marriage that felt like a contract. Then the doors opened, and Olivia walked in, but she wasn' t alone; beside her, with a possessive hand on her back, was Dr. Marcus Thorne, her former mentor. He was a ghost from her past, and she was smiling at him in a way she never smiled at me. I watched them, trying to convince myself it was nothing, as he leaned in to whisper, and she laughed, an intimacy that screamed of a shared history I was not a part of. Dave, my business partner, clapped me on the shoulder, telling me we were "killing it," but my gaze was fixed on Olivia taking a glass of wine from Marcus, their fingers brushing. It felt like a punch to the stomach, seeing the effortless familiarity he had, everything I' d bled for in three years of trying. The anger and humiliation choked me, until I finally stumbled over to them, my voice hoarse. Marcus turned, looked me up and down, and with a condescending smirk, called me "the boy genius," belittling my entire existence. Then the room tilted, my chest tightened, and the world went black. I woke to the sterile smell of a hospital, Olivia asleep beside me, but the warmth turned to bitter self-mockery as I remembered her denial in front of him. Our marriage had been a transaction from the start-a deathbed promise to my father to "look after me." I was 21, grieving, hopelessly infatuated, and agreed, hoping forced proximity would blossom into love. Three years of trying to earn her affection, culminating in last week' s "validation," now felt like just another concession. A cold resolve settled over me; I couldn' t live as a child she was obligated to care for anymore. I disconnected the IV, and when Olivia stirred, I looked her in the eye and said, "Let's get a divorce." She was pale, shocked, but I had never been more clear; I signed the papers and walked out, leaving everything behind. For two days, I hid in a cheap motel, suffocating the voice that replayed her smiling at Marcus, until there was a loud banging on my door. It was Dave, and behind him, a pale and frantic Olivia, who pushed past him, calling me unthinking and childish. "I'm not a child, Olivia," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "Then stop acting like one!" she shot back, as I pulled the signed divorce papers from my bag and pushed them into her hands. "I'm letting you off the hook. You don't have to keep your promise to my father anymore. You're free." She stared at the papers, her eyes widening with disbelief, then she whispered, "No." And with a sudden, violent movement, she ripped the papers in half, declared she would not divorce me, and threw the shredded pieces at my feet. It was never about me; it was always about the promise.

Introduction

The launch party for my company was supposed to be the peak of my life' s ambition, but my eyes were glued to the door, waiting for my wife, Olivia.

Just last week, she' d finally warmed up to me, hinting at starting a family after three years of a marriage that felt like a contract.

Then the doors opened, and Olivia walked in, but she wasn' t alone; beside her, with a possessive hand on her back, was Dr. Marcus Thorne, her former mentor.

He was a ghost from her past, and she was smiling at him in a way she never smiled at me.

I watched them, trying to convince myself it was nothing, as he leaned in to whisper, and she laughed, an intimacy that screamed of a shared history I was not a part of.

Dave, my business partner, clapped me on the shoulder, telling me we were "killing it," but my gaze was fixed on Olivia taking a glass of wine from Marcus, their fingers brushing.

It felt like a punch to the stomach, seeing the effortless familiarity he had, everything I' d bled for in three years of trying.

The anger and humiliation choked me, until I finally stumbled over to them, my voice hoarse.

Marcus turned, looked me up and down, and with a condescending smirk, called me "the boy genius," belittling my entire existence.

Then the room tilted, my chest tightened, and the world went black.

I woke to the sterile smell of a hospital, Olivia asleep beside me, but the warmth turned to bitter self-mockery as I remembered her denial in front of him.

Our marriage had been a transaction from the start-a deathbed promise to my father to "look after me."

I was 21, grieving, hopelessly infatuated, and agreed, hoping forced proximity would blossom into love.

Three years of trying to earn her affection, culminating in last week' s "validation," now felt like just another concession.

A cold resolve settled over me; I couldn' t live as a child she was obligated to care for anymore.

I disconnected the IV, and when Olivia stirred, I looked her in the eye and said, "Let's get a divorce."

She was pale, shocked, but I had never been more clear; I signed the papers and walked out, leaving everything behind.

For two days, I hid in a cheap motel, suffocating the voice that replayed her smiling at Marcus, until there was a loud banging on my door.

It was Dave, and behind him, a pale and frantic Olivia, who pushed past him, calling me unthinking and childish.

"I'm not a child, Olivia," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

"Then stop acting like one!" she shot back, as I pulled the signed divorce papers from my bag and pushed them into her hands.

"I'm letting you off the hook. You don't have to keep your promise to my father anymore. You're free."

She stared at the papers, her eyes widening with disbelief, then she whispered, "No."

And with a sudden, violent movement, she ripped the papers in half, declared she would not divorce me, and threw the shredded pieces at my feet.

It was never about me; it was always about the promise.

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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