99 Divorce Agreements

I couldn't be bothered to answer Finn. My voice was flat and empty.

"Sorry," I said. "I don't know how to be a mother. Let Lisa do it."

I meant it.

But for some reason, my honesty extinguished whatever anger he'd been holding onto.

He looked at me several times before setting a box of cold seafood soup on the table.

"Don't talk nonsense in front of the kid," he said. "I made this myself. Thought I'd bring you some."

My hand froze mid-pour. A faint, bitter smile tugged at my lips.

I'd seen Lisa's post on social media the night before—a photo of her in an apron, standing in a dimly lit kitchen, stirring a pot of soup.

The caption read: [Everyone likes skinny girls, but you're the one who feeds me properly.]

The lighting was dark, but I'd recognized Finn instantly, standing behind her.

On his left hand, the ring finger still wore our wedding band.

Now, it was gone.

He caught me staring and glanced down at his own bare hand, his expression flickering for a moment.

"I lent it to Lisa," he said. "She wanted to try it on for a couple of days."

It made perfect sense, didn't it? Wedding rings could apparently be borrowed now.

I smiled, trying not to feel anything.

My smile seemed to irritate him.

"Don't make a fuss over a stupid ring," he snapped. "Just finish the soup. I'm warning you—take the chance when I give you one. Or do you want another divorce agreement?"

His tone carried the same self-assured dominance as always.

He didn't know—I'd already signed it.

I glanced at the bowl. The soup had congealed overnight; the grains stuck together, solid and gray. Among them floated shrimp shells and tiny fish bones someone hadn't bothered to pick out.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm allergic to seafood."

He froze, embarrassment flashing across his face.

Our son, still sulking from earlier, walked over, eyes red and angry.

"It's just an allergy," he scoffed. "Lisa said mild allergies won't kill you."

He glared at me like I was his enemy. "You're just pretending—trying to steal Dad's attention. Don't believe her, Dad."

Before I could react, Finn grabbed me and forced me down against the dining table. His face twisted with fury, as if I were some disobedient child.

"Heather," he hissed, "you really don't know what's good for you."

He squeezed my cheeks until my jaw ached, then forced the cold soup into my mouth.

Our son clapped his hands, laughing in delight.

When I finally swallowed the last mouthful, Finn released me and wiped the corner of my lips, his tone suddenly tender.

"See? That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

I shoved him away, clutching at my throat, trying to make myself throw up.

But it was too late. My throat began to swell, blisters rising under the skin. Each breath came shorter, harsher.

In the final second before everything went dark, I saw them both running toward me in a blur of panic.

…

When I woke up, I was in a hospital room. The air was heavy with disinfectant, sharp but strangely comforting.

A nurse explained, "You went into anaphylactic shock. If your husband hadn't rushed you here, the outcome could've been much worse."

I turned my head, a dry laugh catching in my throat. He'd known I was allergic—and still forced it down my throat.

The nurse kept talking.

"But honestly, he dropped you off, took a phone call, and left. We haven't been able to reach him since."

She sighed. "You should give your husband a call. The hospital bill hasn't been paid yet."

I froze, suddenly realizing I was still wearing my pajamas. My wallet and phone were both left at home.