My husband finalized the divorce, and then—almost immediately—registered a new marriage with his mistress.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t beg. I didn’t even ask him why, because the “why” had been living in my life for over a year, hiding in late nights, unexplained texts, and the careful way he’d started saying my name like it belonged to someone else.
What I did instead was quiet.
I quietly removed my former sister-in-law from the company.
And by nightfall, my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.
Seventy-seven calls, back-to-back, all from numbers I already knew by heart.
When I finally answered, my former mother-in-law didn’t even bother with hello.
“Who do you think you are,” Barbara Miller hissed, “to fire my daughter—my daughter who earns five billion a year?”
Sarah Hayes remembered the day the divorce became official with a clarity so sharp it felt physical.
Cook County Courthouse. Gray hallways. That stale, recycled air that always smelled faintly of paper and disinfectant.
She walked out with the final documents in her hand, her fingers gripping them as if they might blow away and take the last twenty years with them.
Daniel Miller had taken his copy with the detached calm of someone ending a contract that no longer benefited him. He didn’t look relieved. He didn’t look sad.
He looked mildly inconvenienced, like he’d spent too long on hold with customer service.
“All right,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “It’s done. Don’t call me again.
Let’s just live our own lives.”
Then he turned his back on her and walked away.
Sarah stood there, watching him disappear into the crowd, and let out a laugh that sounded wrong even to her—hollow, brittle, not humor but a reflex that rose out of disbelief.
Twenty years.
And that was his parting line.
Four days later, a text buzzed on her phone.
Sarah, did you know Dan got remarried? I just saw him doing a wedding photo shoot.
Sarah read the message without a flicker of surprise. She had expected it.
Not because she was psychic, but because she’d had to become the kind of woman who recognized patterns before they turned into disasters.
Khloe Jensen.
He and that woman had been involved for over a year. Sarah didn’t need proof anymore; she’d collected enough quiet confirmations to build a whole new life out of them if she wanted. The speed still stung, though—the way he rushed to file a new marriage record as if he wanted the world to applaud his “fresh start” before anyone could ask what he’d burned down to get there.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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