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 received a pornographic video. "Do you like this?" The man speaking in the video is my husband, Mark, whom I haven't seen for several months. He is naked, his shirt and pants scattered on the ground, thrusting forcefully on a woman whose face I can't see, her plump and round breasts bouncing vigorously. I can clearly hear the slapping sounds in the video, mixed with lustful moans and grunts. "Yes, yes, fuck me hard, baby," the woman screams ecstatically in response. "You naughty girl!" Mark stands up and flips her over, slapping her buttocks as he speaks. "Stick your ass up!" The woman giggles, turns around, sways her buttocks, and kneels on the bed. I feel like someone has poured a bucket of ice water on my head. It's bad enough that my husband is having an affair, but what's worse is that the other woman is my own sister, Bella. ************************************************************************************************************************ "I want to get a divorce, Mark," I repeated myself in case he didn't hear me the first time-even though I knew he'd heard me clearly. He stared at me with a frown before answering coldly, "It's not up to you! I'm very busy, don't waste my time with such boring topics, or try to attract my attention!" The last thing I was going to do was argue or bicker with him. "I will have the lawyer send you the divorce agreement," was all I said, as calmly as I could muster. He didn't even say another word after that and just went through the door he'd been standing in front of, slamming it harshly behind him. My eyes lingered on the knob of the door a bit absentmindedly before I pulled the wedding ring off my finger and placed it on the table. I grabbed my suitcase, which I'd already had my things packed in and headed out of the house.

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