Every time Wesley brought one of his girls home, he would conveniently bring a college boy back for me. “I need a thrill, and you need company,” he would say, his tone perfectly casual. “We both get what we want, Caroline. Nobody gets to play the victim here.” But this last time, he played his hand too far. He brought another twenty-something kid to the house and sat me down, using that perfectly measured, reasonable voice he saved for board meetings. “Birth control failed. Sophie’s pregnant. She’s refusing to keep the baby unless I legitimize it and give the kid my last name. We’re going to file for a temporary divorce.” He paused, looking at me as if he were simply suggesting a change of dinner plans. “Until we remarry, you can spend some quality time with him. I won’t stand in your way.” Behind closed doors, his friends would ask him, “Wes, you climbed the ninety-nine jagged stone steps of St. Jude’s on your bare knees to beg God for her life. You fought to make her your wife. Are you really this generous now?” “Yeah, man,” another would chime in. “You didn’t even warn this college kid to keep his hands off your wife?” Wesley would just take a slow drag of his cigarette, his expression unreadable. “I don’t have a cuckold fetish,” he’d say. “You guys know how Caroline is. She’s got a rigid moral compass. She treats infidelity like a physical contamination. She won’t let them touch her.” “Brilliant, Wes. You bring the guy into her house, but if she’s too proud to use him, that’s her problem. You come out looking like the good guy. Masterclass.” They all assumed I would do exactly what I had done every time before: write a check, shove it into the boy’s chest, and kick him out. Instead, I looked up, met Wesley’s eyes, and smiled. “Sure,” I said softly. “Sounds good to me.” … 1 Wesley froze, the cigarette stalling halfway to his mouth. A heavy silence dropped over the living room. Brad’s wife was the first to recover her voice. “Caroline… what did you just say?” I placed my phone face-down on the coffee table. My gaze drifted slowly from Wesley’s tightened jaw to the young man standing near the entryway. “I said sure.” I looked the boy up and down, taking him in. “He’s definitely easy on the eyes.” Someone sucked in a sharp breath. “Did she just agree?!” “Wait, she’s not throwing him out this time?” “Wes, did you hear that?” Wesley’s expression didn’t shatter. That faint, arrogant smirk remained stitched to the corner of his mouth. Beside him, Sophie shifted nervously, her fingers digging into Wesley’s arm. “Wes, your wife finally understands. You should be happy.” Wesley didn’t answer her. He crushed his cigarette into the glass ashtray, walked over to the young man, and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Take good care of her.” With that, he wrapped his arm around Sophie and headed upstairs. I pulled my gaze away and looked at the boy. He was still standing in the exact same spot, the tips of his ears flushed a deep, frantic red. “Do you live on campus, or are you staying here?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Either… either is fine.” “Then you’ll stay.” I turned on my heel and walked toward the hallway. Behind me, the rustle of panicked whispers broke out: “Is she serious right now?” “Last time this happened, she nearly took our heads off!” “Relax, trust Wes. When has she ever not thrown a checkbook at them with her nose in the air? She acts like touching another man would rot her skin off.” “Yeah, remember that frat guy last month? She didn’t even pay him. Just called security to drag him out.” “She’s just putting on a show because the new girl is pregnant. She’s trying to get under Wes’s skin.” I kept walking. Their words felt like tiny needles pressing into my spine. They didn’t hurt, but the sensation was dense and suffocating. They were right. I used to be insufferable. Too aloof, too proud. I foolishly believed that having a “rigid moral compass” would somehow protect me. Every time Wesley paraded a young man in front of me, I would frost over, sign a check, and banish them from my sight. I thought that meant I was winning. I thought, at the very least, it meant my hands were clean. And what did that get me? Sophie’s belly was growing. What had my precious “morals” protected? A signed divorce agreement? A vast, empty bed? The mocking stares of the high-society vultures sitting in my living room? I reached the second-floor bedroom and pushed the door open. “We’re here,” I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. I watched the boy standing awkwardly in the hallway. Evan. Six-foot-two. Valedictorian. Best speaker at the national mock trial, guaranteed admission to Columbia Law, full-ride academic scholarships every single year. Wesley had really spared no expense this time. He wasn’t just some random gym bro picked up from a downtown club. “Selling yourself for tuition money?” I asked. He nodded. No hesitation. No desperate excuses. The old me would have scoffed right then, tossed out a freezing, ‘How much? Take it and get out,’ and dismissed him like trash. God, how mighty I used to feel. Standing on my moral high ground, wielding my purity like a sword. Treating every man Wesley sent me as if they were infected. And yet, the “infected” men left, and Wesley never came back to my bed anyway. Between the two of us, whose soul was actually rotting? “If you need anything, tell the housekeeper,” I said, stepping into the room. He followed me inside. “Caroline… my name is Evan.” “I know.” I didn’t turn around. “Wesley gave me your resume.” I walked out onto the balcony. I didn’t invite him to follow, and he didn’t intrude. Below, the guests were finally dispersing into the night, their expensive cars pulling out of my driveway. I had lost count of how many times I had been their evening’s entertainment. When I stepped back into the bedroom, my eyes snagged on the divorce papers sitting on the nightstand. For three years, I had made a home in the blind spot of our marriage, looking past every late night, every rumor, every cheap perfume. A single, shattering incident years ago had fractured us, tearing our hearts in opposite directions. He had his resentments, and I had mine. But debts, no matter how old, always come due. At first, I told him I didn’t care what he did, as long as he didn’t bring them to our house. Then I told him I didn’t care who he brought, as long as he didn’t get them pregnant. I surrendered an inch, and he took a mile. Now, since we were both utterly exhausted by the rotting carcass of this marriage… there was no point in hesitating. I picked up the pen and signed my name. Evan stepped out of the en-suite bathroom just then, his hair damp, a towel slung low on his hips. The moment he saw me, the tips of his ears burned that same violent red. “Caroline… I just finished.” I stood up. Wesley really had a talent for picking them. This one blushed so easily. Usually, when I threw money at them, there was an ugly flash of resentment in their eyes. One had even screamed at me: “You two are psychotic! One of you buys us, the other throws us out! What the hell are we to you? Props?” I had looked at him with dead eyes and said, “Take the money and shut your mouth.” Looking back, he was entirely right. We were both psychotic. One obsessed with humiliating his wife, the other obsessed with maintaining an illusion of purity. My phone lit up. A text from Wesley. [Go to sleep early.] I stared at those four words and let out a dry, hollow laugh. He never texted me things like that anymore. But he did tonight. Was it because I had let Evan stay? Because he finally realized that the untouchable Caroline might actually let someone touch her? I didn’t reply. Outside, the streetlights clicked off. The massive estate fell dead silent. Sophie had moved in. Evan had moved in. This beautiful, multi-million dollar house was finally functioning exactly as what it was: a landfill. Stuffed with garbage and broken people. Myself included. I switched off the lamp, a bitter smile catching on my lips in the dark. He thought I was still the old Caroline. He thought I wouldn’t dare. He thought my pride would keep me starved forever. He was wrong. … The next morning, an unfamiliar, heavy ache settled deep in my lower back. When I came downstairs, Evan was in the kitchen, awkwardly helping the housekeeper chop vegetables. The moment he saw me, the spatula nearly slipped from his grip. I offered a small smile. Where had all that quiet, intense confidence from last night gone? I had barely taken my seat at the dining table when Wesley came down the stairs. “Up early?” he asked, pulling out the chair opposite mine. His lips curved into an illegible smirk. “How was last night?” Before I could answer, the front door burst open. Vince charged in, loud and practically vibrating. “Wes! Who won the pool? I bet twenty grand he didn’t make it past noon!” “I bet she kicked him out at midnight. Three-to-one odds, Wes is holding the pot—” The voices snapped off. They saw me sitting there. The chaotic excitement on their faces curdled into immediate, suffocating panic. “Caroline… morning!” Wesley picked up his coffee and took a slow sip. Utterly relaxed. As if his friends weren’t treating his crumbling marriage like a Vegas sportsbook, but rather celebrating a trophy he’d won. “Sit down,” I said smoothly. “Breakfast is ready.” I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Evan, you need to get to class.” Evan blinked, startled, then hurriedly untied his apron and left out the back door. The heavy mahogany door clicked shut. Silence held the living room hostage for two agonizing seconds. Vince leaned in, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. “See? Told you! She’s sending him away!” Brad chuckled, the tension breaking. “What did you expect? You think Wes doesn’t know exactly how her mind works?” “You’ve got her perfectly trained, Wes,” Vince said, awe bleeding into his tone. “That’s exactly the kind of wife you want. Guards the house, guards herself.” Wesley sat at the head of the table, his plate empty. He listened to them, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked deeply, thoroughly satisfied. I let out a long breath, stepping out of the kitchen archway. I spoke at the exact same second Wesley did. “Come with me to my father’s house for dinner tonight—” he started. “I’ll see you at the lawyer’s office at two o’clock—” I said. The room went graveyard still. I placed the signed divorce agreement squarely in the center of the table. “Let’s get this done first.” Wesley went rigid. His eyes locked onto my signature on the bottom line. He didn’t move. I knew exactly what was running through his head. In the past, this was the part where my eyes would well with tears, where I would rip the paper to shreds and scream, ‘How dare you throw us away like this?!’ He thrived on that desperate pull. He slowly dragged his eyes up to meet mine. He slipped back into his lazy, arrogant drawl. “What’s the rush? I told you, we wait until Sophie is out of her first trimester.” “I’m not waiting,” I said. “Two o’clock. Are you going to be there?” A muscle jumped beneath his eye. “Caroline.” He slid the papers back toward me. “Are you out of your mind?” “Or what?” I tilted my head. “Are you afraid you’ll wake up tomorrow, change your mind, and tear these up yourself?” The air in the room thickened into concrete. Suddenly, Sophie appeared at the top of the stairs, her hand resting delicately on her stomach. “Caroline, please don’t be so aggressive,” she said, her voice trembling just enough. “I just… I just don’t want my baby to be born a bastard. The divorce… we can wait until my pregnancy is stable!” Her eyes pooled with tears. She looked more devastated about the end of my marriage than I was. Wesley glanced at her. That pathetic, fragile display, paired with her pleading ‘don’t be aggressive’, acted like a needle straight into his inflated ego. Since when did Wesley Kincaid let anyone back him into a corner? “You think I won’t sign it, Caroline?” he scoffed, grabbing the silver pen off the table. Vince panicked. “Wes, wait—” “Shut up,” Wesley snapped, not looking up. He signed his name with aggressive, slashing strokes and slammed the pen down. That trademark, cocky smile returned to his face. “I am a man of my word. Everyone here is a witness.” He stood up, leaning across the table until his face was inches from mine. His tone dropped, dripping with a possessive, toxic intimacy. “You’re the woman I dragged back from death’s door, Caroline. You think any of the trash out there can compare to you?” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “This baby… you’ll raise it. Only you have the right to raise a Kincaid heir. Understood?” I let out a soft, breathy laugh. So this was how he loved me. This was his twisted version of devotion. I didn’t say a single word. I simply turned, grabbed the suitcase I had packed hours ago, and walked out the front door. Behind me, Sophie’s soft, whiny voice floated through the foyer. “Wes… is she… is she really not coming back?” Wesley had an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. His original plan was a legal divorce but a shared roof. I was supposed to retain residency in the house. Walking out had not been on his script. But to him, it didn’t change the ending. “You little manipulator,” he said, glancing at Sophie. “She’s gone. You’re probably thrilled.” “I am not!” Sophie pouted. “You’re so mean… I was raised better than to destroy another woman’s marriage…” She looked down, caressing her flat stomach. “It’s all just for the baby.” She played the part of the helpless flower battered by the wind flawlessly. It immediately extinguished whatever irritation was brewing in Wesley. “Alright, alright. Don’t cry. I’m just messing with you.” Sophie was smarter than all the girls before her. She didn’t write me unhinged paragraphs on Instagram. She never called me at 2 AM to whisper, ‘He’s sleeping next to me.’ She just played the innocent bystander swept up in a tragedy. All I had to do was raise my voice, and Wesley was convinced I was torturing her. I had met younger, prettier, sharper women during his reign of terror. But they were always too eager. Too desperate for him to choose, too desperate for me to leave. Only Sophie had the patience to move in, pregnant, quietly calling me “Caroline” with more sweetness than my own family. She achieved what a dozen other women couldn’t. … At 1:50 PM, I was sitting on a hard wooden bench inside the family law attorney’s office. I dialed Wesley’s number for the ninth time. This time, he picked up. “Where are you?” I asked. His voice was entirely too casual. “I’m with Sophie at the OB-GYN. They’re backed up. Just wait around, I’ll head over when we’re done.” “I told you. The appointment is at two.” “The paperwork isn’t going to evaporate, Caroline,” he sighed, the exact tone one uses on a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. “We’ll do it after her ultrasound. I’m hanging up.” Wait. Always waiting. I looked around the sterile waiting room. Couples sat miles apart on the same couches. Some had eyes rimmed red from crying; others looked hollowed out. I used to cry like that. I used to scream until my throat bled. And then, moved by some twisted sense of mercy, he would ‘reward’ me by not filing the papers. But today, I didn’t want his mercy. The receptionist called the next name. I opened my phone, found my attorney’s contact, and typed a quick message: [David, I want to move forward with a contested, at-fault divorce. I’ll email you the documentation this afternoon.] That evening, after dodging three calls from Wesley’s father, Richard Kincaid, I finally drove to the Kincaid estate. The whole drive there, my stomach was in knots. How was I supposed to explain this to the old man? Tell him his golden boy knocked up a twenty-something? Tell him he manipulated me into signing divorce papers? Or tell him I was taking his son to court to burn his empire down? Family politics are always uglier than legal battles. When I arrived in the grand dining room, I was alone. Richard Kincaid paused, his heavy brow furrowing. “Where is Wesley?” “He’s busy,” I said quietly. “Busy?” Richard slammed his silverware onto the mahogany table. “What could possibly be more important than his own wife?” I kept my mouth shut. Richard and my father had built their fortunes side-by-side. They had bled for each other in the early days. Richard had always championed our marriage, but Wesley’s mother despised me. She thought my background was too pedestrian, and after I fell seriously ill in my twenties, she decided I was a bad omen for the family bloodline. It was Wesley who refused to let me go. When I was in the ICU, fighting for my life, he flew to the mountains and climbed the ninety-nine jagged stone steps of the old St. Jude’s Monastery on his bare knees. By the time he reached the chapel, his legs were shredded and bleeding. He had knelt at the altar and said, “I will walk away from her forever if you just let her live. Just let her be okay.” When I woke up and heard what he did, I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. In our relationship, he had always been the one charging into the fire, while my insecurities kept me shrinking back. After that day, I grabbed his hand and promised him: “I won’t hide anymore. If you have the courage to ask, I have the courage to marry you.” Miraculously, I recovered. I walked into the Kincaid estate with my head held high. Richard Kincaid was so thrilled he transferred a third of his personal stock options into my name as a wedding gift. He said it was to guarantee my protection against his own family. Back then, I thought my mother-in-law was the biggest hurdle I would ever face. I know better now. Outside forces can never destroy a marriage. Only the rot from the inside can. I was just trying to figure out how to break the news when the dining room doors swung open. Wesley walked in, his arm securely wrapped around Sophie. He froze the second he saw me. Richard’s face darkened into thunder. “You insolent bastard. Who the hell did you drag into my house?” Wesley effortlessly guided Sophie to a chair, his tone dripping with nonchalance. “Dad, it’s just dinner. Relax.” He shot a cold look in my direction. “Caroline, go home.” Then, as if he felt a sudden need to justify himself, he leaned down and whispered loudly enough for me to hear: “I only brought her because I assumed you wouldn’t show up. Let her have tonight, okay?” I let out a dry, scratching laugh. Let her have tonight. He was holding court for his mistress. Elevating her to the point of bringing her to a family dinner before the ink on our divorce papers was even dry. I used to think Sophie was just another toy. A passing phase until the novelty wore off. I was wrong. Wesley’s mother descended the grand staircase. Her cold, surgical gaze swept over my face before landing on Sophie. “So this is the pregnant stray?” she sneered. “Our family just attracts the most low-class, pathetic creatures, doesn’t it?” One sentence, perfectly engineered to degrade us both. Years ago, Wesley would have stepped in front of me, shielded me with his body, and snarled at his mother, “Caroline is the woman I chose.” Tonight, his brow furrowed as he pulled Sophie tightly into his chest. “Mom. You don’t get to speak about my woman that way.” His tone was harder, more vicious than it had ever been when he was protecting me. Sophie buried her face in his jacket, her shoulders trembling as if the whole world were conspiring to crush her. Unlike me. Even when I was being emotionally gutted, I sat there with a spine made of steel, looking like I could hold up the sky if it fell. I stood up, suddenly entirely bored of the theatrics. “I’m leaving.” Richard tried to stop me, but I didn’t look back. Wesley didn’t even glance up from stroking Sophie’s hair. As I walked out of the massive iron gates of the estate, the memory of those ninety-nine bloodstained steps flashed in my mind. I will walk away from her forever if you just let her live. Just let her be okay. Well, Wesley. You got your wish. … The divorce proceeded much faster than I anticipated. Wesley likely assumed that once Sophie popped the kid out, we would just march down to City Hall and quietly remarry. Business as usual. The day we met to sign the final, binding mediation agreement, he was forty minutes late. When he finally strolled in, he picked up the pen and signed his name with a smooth, practiced flick of the wrist. Then he leaned in close to me, dropping his voice into that rare, intoxicating register he used when he wanted to coax me into something. “You always wanted a real wedding, didn’t you?” he murmured. “When we remarry, I’ll plan it myself. That island in Greece you loved, the designer veil, everything you ever wanted. I’ll give it to you.” I looked up, meeting his eyes evenly. “Wesley. Don’t bother.” He blinked, taken aback for a fraction of a second, before his arrogant smile returned. “I know you think it’s silly since we’ve been married for years, but I owe you a real wedding. I’m going to make it right.” I shook my head slowly. “Next week, you’ll—” Before I could finish the sentence, his phone erupted. Wesley answered it, his posture instantly snapping to attention. “What do you mean her stomach hurts? I’m on my way!” He took two sprinting steps toward the door before suddenly stopping. He spun around, pointing a finger at me. “I know that once the court finalizes these papers next week, our marriage is technically dissolved. But that’s just a piece of paper, Caroline. The court gets the decree, but you belong to me. Understand? Those are two entirely different things.” He patted my shoulder and bolted down the hallway. I stood in the doorway of the mediator’s office, speaking to the empty air as I finished my sentence. “…Next week, you’ll be getting more than just divorce papers.” When the court decree arrived by certified mail at the estate a week later, my father summoned me home with the fury of a firing squad. “I don’t care what sick game you’re playing,” the old man bellowed through the phone. “You get Caroline back to this house immediately. I have something to say. And when I’m done, if you still want a divorce, I won’t stand in your way.” I rubbed my temples, a spike of annoyance flaring. I didn’t know what my father was planning, but I knew deep down how unhinged this entire divorce was. My phone had been dead silent for a week. No texts from Caroline. No calls to check up on me. I had told everyone I was giving her space, but the silence was hollowing me out from the inside. I had never gone an entire week without speaking to my wife. My father’s demand was the perfect excuse. The perfect golden ladder for me to climb down from my ego and go find her. “Fine, fine,” I muttered, pulling my phone from my pocket and swiping to her name. “God, you’re exhausting. I’ll call her right now.” I complained out loud, but my thumb hit the dial button faster than it had in months. I cleared my throat, mentally rehearsing the opening line. Caroline, the old man is demanding you come to the house. No, too weak. Are you done throwing this tantrum? It’s not a real divorce, you don’t need to ghost me for a week. The line clicked open. But it wasn’t Caroline. “Hello! The bride is just touching up her makeup. Are you a friend of the bride or groom?” a bright, cheerful female voice chirped.
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