The day my husband and I were supposed to finalize our divorce was also the day his first love returned to the country. On my way to the courthouse, I was in a car accident. As the paramedics rushed me to the hospital, I clung to my phone, hoping—praying—that he would call. When his name finally flashed on the screen, I answered with trembling hands. His voice came through, sharp and cold, the first words out of his mouth a scathing accusation: “Annie, what game are you playing now? You’re late.” “Miss, are you heading to the courthouse to get married?” The cab driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, grinning as he tried to make small talk. I smiled faintly back at him. “No, I’m going there to get divorced.” The smile froze on his face, and for a moment, he looked genuinely awkward. “Oh… uh… I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to assume,” he stammered. “It’s fine,” I said gently. “Most people wouldn’t think of divorce as their first guess. It’s not your fault.” He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head. The atmosphere in the car grew a little tense. After a few beats of silence, he spoke again, his voice hesitant. “If you don’t mind me asking… what happened? Why are you getting divorced?” His question caught me off guard. Realizing how intrusive it might’ve sounded, he quickly added, “I just mean… you’re young, beautiful. Any man would be lucky to have you. Why would anyone let it get to this point?” There was genuine curiosity in his tone, even a hint of pity. I let out a soft “oh” and decided there was no harm in telling the truth. “He’s still in love with someone else,” I said lightly. “His first love. She’s back in the country, and now that she’s here, there’s no room for me anymore.” I tried to sound unaffected, brushing it off as something trivial. But the driver fell silent, clearly unsure how to respond. He didn’t ask anything else after that, and I turned my attention to the window, letting the conversation die. A few years ago, his first love, Summer, had left the country. She’d married a wealthy man overseas, and the news had devastated Ethan. He had spiraled, a shell of himself, drowning in his heartbreak. That was when I saw my chance. I’d loved Ethan for as long as he’d loved Summer, and when she disappeared from his life, I swooped in. I was there for him when he was at his lowest, and eventually, I became the one he leaned on. It worked. Ethan and I started dating, and over time, we got engaged and then married. For a few years, Summer’s name stopped haunting our lives. Things were never passionate between us, but we coexisted peacefully, and I thought that might be enough. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it was something.
I thought we’d continue living that way indefinitely—quietly, without excitement, but also without turmoil. Then, a few weeks ago, everything changed. Summer got divorced and announced she was moving back to the country. The moment Ethan found out, it was like a switch flipped inside him. He became a man possessed. If it hadn’t been for his work commitments, I knew he would’ve been on the first flight out to see her. I watched in stunned silence as he transformed before my eyes. The man who had always been so composed and distant suddenly had the wide-eyed excitement of a teenager. He had no hesitation, no shame. Right in front of me, he picked up his phone and called her. I sat there as he asked her one question after another, his voice trembling with excitement. They made plans to meet the moment she returned. When he hung up, he turned to me, his eyes bright with an almost childlike glee. “Annie,” he said, “Summer’s coming back. Let’s get divorced.” He was so eager, so casual, as though I weren’t his wife, as though I were just some placeholder to keep him company while she was gone. Now that the woman he truly loved had returned, I was nothing more than an obstacle. I couldn’t help but laugh bitterly. For the first time in years, I lost my temper. We fought. In all our time together, we’d never raised our voices at each other. But that day, I screamed, cried, and begged. By the end of it, Ethan was ice-cold. He didn’t look at me as he snapped, “Thursday. Courthouse. Don’t be late.” Then he slammed the door behind him, leaving me alone with the pieces of my broken heart. That night, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. When the tears finally stopped, regret set in. I called him over and over, desperate to take it all back, to apologize, to ask him to stay. But he didn’t answer. When I tried again the next day, I realized he had blocked me. For days, I didn’t see him. Not at home. Not anywhere. Finally, Thursday came. I hesitated for hours, debating whether or not to go. I didn’t want to divorce him. I wanted one more chance to talk to him, to convince him to stay. But the courthouse was the only place I could be sure to find him. I had no other choice.
As I sat in the back of the cab, my thoughts started spiraling, unraveling the calm façade I’d tried so hard to maintain while chatting with the driver. Why? Why had I been the one standing by Ethan all these years, and yet he still couldn’t forget Summer? My fists clenched involuntarily. The sharp sting of my nails digging into my palms was the only thing anchoring me to reality, holding together the fragile pieces of my composure. And then it happened. A truck, out of control and going the wrong way, barreled onto the road. It came out of nowhere, veering straight toward us. The driver saw it too late. There was no time to react. The collision was instant and deafening. In that split second, it felt like the world dissolved into nothingness. The noise around me faded into a distant hum, like static on a broken radio. My body felt weightless, as if it were floating in the air. Even pain seemed to disappear, leaving only an eerie, hollow silence. I didn’t know how much time passed before sensation returned, but when it did, it came back all at once. The pain hit me like a tidal wave, sharp and unrelenting, driving me to the brink of unconsciousness. Every nerve in my body felt like it was on fire. I barely registered the people around me, their voices muffled as they worked to pull me from the wreckage. They lifted me carefully and placed me on the waiting stretcher. The ambulance doors slammed shut, and as we sped toward the hospital, a faint vibration in my pocket broke through the haze of pain. My phone. It was still intact, somehow, miraculously surviving the crash. And now, it was ringing. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. Ethan. Even though I couldn’t move, I just knew. “Please,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. I turned my head toward the nurse, desperation thick in my tone. “Please, answer it for me. Please.” Something in my plea must have moved her, because after a moment of hesitation, she picked up the phone and held it to my ear. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to tell him I was hurt, that I needed him, that I missed him so much I could barely breathe. But before I could say anything—before I could even whisper a single word—his voice came through, cold and biting. “Annie,” he snapped, his tone laced with irritation, “what stupid stunt are you pulling now? You’re late.” 3 Tears streamed down my face, hot and uncontrollable. The pain from the crash was unbearable, but it was nothing compared to the ache his words left behind. What was I to him, really? His partner? A convenient distraction for his loneliness? No, I was less than that. I was air. Invisible, unnoticed, but always there. In the years when Summer was gone, he’d needed me—not because he cared, but because I was just there, filling the empty spaces she left behind. Now that Summer was back, I had become carbon dioxide. Something he couldn’t wait to exhale, discard, and forget. I forced out a bitter, hollow laugh, though it felt more like a gasp. “Hang up,” I said, my voice raw and cracked. The nurse looked at me, her face a mixture of pity and hesitation, but I nodded weakly. She ended the call. I had come to the courthouse not to finalize our divorce but to see him one last time. I wanted to beg him to stay, to give us another chance. But his cold indifference had shattered the fragile dream I’d been clinging to. The truth, raw and brutal, stared me in the face. Ethan did not love me. He never had. Reality hit me like a freight train. My dream of a life with him—of being his wife, of mattering to him—was nothing more than a cruel illusion. I felt the nurse’s sympathetic gaze on me, but I didn’t care. I broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably in the back of the ambulance. The people around me whispered, their voices hushed. “Poor girl,” one of them said. “She must be in so much pain. That crash was brutal.” I wanted to laugh at the irony, but the sound wouldn’t come. The tears fell harder instead. Yes, I was in pain. But it wasn’t the crash that was killing me. No, this was a pain that went deeper than broken bones and torn skin. It was the pain of a thousand dull knives carving through my chest, ripping apart everything I thought I knew about love. Every blade stripped away another piece of my dignity, my pride, my self-worth. And yet, in its cruel, merciless way, the pain also woke me up. It forced me to see the truth I had been too blind to face. Ethan never loved me. And now, I needed to stop loving him. For the first time in years, I felt something stir deep inside me—a spark of clarity, of resolve. I would crawl out of this endless cycle of heartbreak. I would let him go. I would find myself again.
The accident was brutal, but I was lucky—just a broken left leg. When the truck tipped over and came crashing toward me, I thought I was going to die. But somehow, fate decided to spare me. As I lay in the hospital, Ethan texted me. “Why are you standing me up? You’ve ruined my chance to show up with the divorce papers and finally see Summer without guilt.” I stared at his cold, emotionless words, and surprisingly, I smiled. Once I’d made the decision to let go, these words, which would’ve shattered me before, now felt like nothing more than a breeze in passing. I looked at his name pinned at the top of my messaging app. The chat history was pristine—completely empty. He had never initiated a conversation with me, not even once. And I, well, I had learned to be “considerate.” I didn’t bother him with texts, only calling when absolutely necessary. Even then, I used to feel a strange satisfaction just seeing his name at the top of my screen whenever I opened the app. But now, things were different. Scrolling through my feed, I saw his most recent post: a nine-photo collage of a candlelit dinner. Two hands intertwined under the warm glow of the candles, their matching couple rings sparkling as though they were stars themselves. It was the kind of romance I’d never had with him. Once, I had suggested buying wedding rings for us. He had frowned and flatly refused, saying he wasn’t comfortable wearing “extraneous things.” Yet here he was, proudly wearing a couple’s ring. But I had no right to question him. No right to ask why. I glanced at the divorce papers sitting on the bedside table. Without hesitation, I signed them, sealed them in an envelope, and mailed them to Ethan. The nurse knocked softly on my door. “Miss Lane, your discharge papers are ready.” “Thank you,” I said. I had spent two weeks in the hospital. During that time, Ethan hadn’t called, hadn’t visited, hadn’t even asked where I was. I should’ve felt devastated, but instead, I felt a strange sense of relief. I packed my things and glanced at my phone one last time, still open to our empty chat. I didn’t hesitate this time. I blocked him. Before I hit “confirm,” I typed one final message: “Ethan, goodbye forever.”
Life without Ethan felt… quiet. Without him, time slowed down. He left me the house, the car, and even our joint savings—as if he wanted to make a clean break. I didn’t feel sorry for him; he still had his company, his success, and most of all, her. With Summer back in his life, why would he care about material things? Recovering from a broken leg gave me plenty of time to reflect. For years, my entire world had revolved around Ethan. Even my career was built around supporting his. I had been so consumed by him that I forgot I was once an ambitious, top-tier graduate with dreams of my own. As my leg healed, I began sending out résumés, determined to start over. By the time fall rolled around, I was ready to move forward. One crisp autumn afternoon, as I lounged in my rocking chair by the window enjoying the golden sunlight, I received an email. It was an invitation from Simon Crane. Simon Crane—Ethan’s biggest business rival. Over the years, I’d crossed paths with Simon countless times while working alongside Ethan. He was sharp, disciplined, and utterly relentless—a man who seemed more like a machine than a person. I couldn’t imagine him wasting time mocking me, but still, I hesitated. After three minutes of deliberation, I replied, accepting his offer. When Simon arrived to pick me up, his reaction to my slight limp was immediate. His sharp eyes widened in surprise. “It’s been a few months, Annie, and now you’re… disabled?” “Just some lingering effects of a broken leg,” I said casually, brushing it off with a smile. “Shouldn’t you be doubling my salary now that I qualify as a disabled hire?” He smirked. “You’ve got a good attitude.” “I’ll take that as a compliment,” I replied smoothly. “It was.” His gaze caught the autumn sunlight, his dark eyes glinting like polished obsidian. I studied him for a moment. The sharp features, broad shoulders, and tapered waist—he was the very definition of unfairly attractive. It was no wonder women fell for him in droves. “Now I see why so many women practically throw themselves at you,” I teased with a grin. Simon raised a brow as he helped me up the steps. “And yet, you’re not one of them?” I chuckled, accepting his assistance. My leg still gave me trouble, and climbing stairs was a challenge. “Let’s be honest, Simon. How many times have we gone head-to-head over business deals? I’ve spent years wanting to tear you apart.” He laughed—a rare, genuine sound. “Fair enough.” When we reached the top, I turned to face him, my expression serious. “Why did you send me that invitation?” I asked. “Be honest.” He didn’t look like he was here to gloat or mock me. But still, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that he had ulterior motives. Did he know about my divorce? Was he planning to use me to get under Ethan’s skin? To my surprise, Simon’s answer was simple and sincere. “Annie, you’re a talented woman,” he said, his tone steady. “I respect your abilities. That’s why I invited you.” His words caught me off guard. Before I married Ethan, I had dreamed of building something of my own—a business, a legacy. But those dreams had been buried the moment I saw an opportunity to win Ethan’s love. I had thrown myself into his world, willingly becoming the woman behind the man, sacrificing my ambitions for his. Now, standing in front of Simon, I felt something stir deep inside me. It was time to stop living for someone else. It was time to stand on my own again. “Alright,” I said, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Let’s get to work.”
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