When Victoria Vance asked for a divorce for the 108th time, I opened my eyes to find I had been given a second chance at life.
Her exhausted voice echoed in my ears. "We're done, Adrian. Dragging this out won't do anyone any good."
In my past life, I clung to my status as Victoria's legal spouse. I refused to let go.
It wasn't until she and Eli had a child that I completely lost control.
After a public confrontation, she had me locked in a psychiatric ER, claiming I was "a danger to myself or others."
I was trapped there.
Before I died, the last thing she ever said to me was:
"If I knew you'd end up like this, I never would've married you."
So in this life, what could possibly be more important than staying alive?
"Drop the obsession with saving this marriage, and everything is negotiable."
Victoria pinched the bridge of her nose.
"If we can't agree today, we'll talk next time, and the time after that, until you're willing—"
"There won't be a 109th time," I cut her off. "I'll sign."
~~~~~
Victoria blinked, her composure slipping for a fraction of a second.
She had finally gotten the answer she wanted.
"Glad you finally see reason," she said, giving a slight nod.
She pulled a document from her briefcase and slid it across the table.
"Three properties in the New York metropolitan area, twelve percent equity in Vanguard Crest Holdings, a Mercedes-Maybach, and six million in cash."
"Take a look. Let me know if you want to add anything."
She listed it off smoothly. She had clearly been preparing this for a long time.
She sounded so sincere, as if she were actually looking out for my best interests.
I looked down at the agreement, fighting the sudden urge to laugh.
I knew exactly what she was giving Eli, and it was far more than this.
Without a word, I picked up the pen and signed my name on the tentative settlement terms drafted by our lawyers.
The formal divorce would still require financial disclosure, asset valuation, equity compliance review, and a final court submission.
Victoria stared at my signature. A flicker of an emotion I couldn't quite read crossed her eyes.
The news spread fast.
By that afternoon, private WhatsApp groups, Instagram Stories, and the text chains of our high-net-worth social circles were lighting up.
"Adrian finally gave up."
"Victoria's free."
"Should've ended ages ago. Why drag the poor woman down for three years?"
Someone dropped a message in a group chat: "Drinks tonight? Let's celebrate Victoria finally dropping the dead weight."
Victoria's friends and industry acquaintances were raising glasses, toasting her escape from her "obsessive" husband.
My phone buzzed. It was my good friend, Maya Bennett.
Her voice was quiet. "Adrian... you're actually letting her go?"
I stood by the window, staring out at the overcast Manhattan skyline.
"What else can I do?" I said. "You can't keep someone who's already gone."
Maya fell silent for a few seconds, then let out a soft sigh.
"I guess that's it, then."
"Yeah. That's it."
I hung up, opened my photo gallery, and started deleting pictures of Victoria, one by one.
The photo from the day we got our marriage license at the Manhattan City Clerk's Office. She was giving a faint smile; I was grinning like an idiot.
The overwater villa in the Maldives. She was leaning against my chest, the ocean breeze catching her hair.
Our anniversary. Her cutting my steak for me.
A candid shot I took of her side profile.
The last one was from our wedding day. She was straightening my tie. The light from the church's stained glass fell across her face, and the way she looked at me was so incredibly gentle.
My thumb hovered for a second. Then I hit delete.
Seven years of memories, wiped out in three seconds.
I closed my eyes, and the memories of my past life slammed into me.
When I found out Victoria and Eli had a child, I broke. I screamed at them, demanding to know why they would betray me like this.
Security pinned me to the floor. My face was pressed against the freezing tiles.
Victoria stood over me, her voice entirely devoid of warmth.
"He's an immediate risk. Take him to the psychiatric ER. I'm done."
She didn't look back at me once.
I screamed. I cried. I begged.
No one believed me.
Later, I was transferred to an inpatient psychiatric facility. Behind locked doors, buried under heavy medication, and weighed down by the words "delusional" and "paranoid" stamped into my medical files, I watched myself rot away piece by piece.
She finally came to see me right before I died.
She was wearing the dark gray coat I had bought her. She stood by my hospital bed, still as beautiful and untouchable as ever.
She looked at my emaciated, hollowed-out frame and said:
"If I knew you'd end up like this, I never would've married you."
I opened my eyes.
It was already dark outside the window.
In this life, I would never again be the madman they could define and dispose of.
They were going to pay for every single thing they did.