A Wedding Offer that Made my Ex Husband Crawled Back

"You told me before that you’d cover all my father’s medical expenses if I married you,” I said into the phone, my voice flat but trembling underneath. “Is the deal still on the table?”

Silence. A pause. Then a low, amused chuckle on the other end of the line.

“So you finally realized that Treston’s garbage,” he said. “And that I’m the one who actually cares for you?”

I closed my eyes.

“Yes,” I whispered. “I’ll divorce him. Come pick me up… in a week.”

And then I ended the call before I could hear his smug response. Before I could lose my nerve.

My hand dropped to my lap, the phone clattering softly against the sheets.

My whole body was shaking.

Marrying him—the man I once swore I’d never speak to again. My enemy in college. The same arrogant bastard who competed with me in every class, every competition, every breath. The one who once told me, with terrifying certainty, “One day, you’ll be mine whether you like it or not.”

And now… I was the one calling him.

But even marrying him felt like a better choice than staying here. In this five-year marriage to a man who shattered me without blinking.

Treston. My husband.

The man I gave everything to.

The man who cheated on me… with Summer. My best friend.

I found out months ago. By accident. Treston forgot to log out of our shared calendar. A hotel booking appeared—under both his name and Summer’s.

At first, I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I asked. Calmly. Reasonably.

“She’s a client,” he said with that condescending smile. “You referred her to me, remember? You said she needed help setting up her brand. She’s your friend. Why are you acting like this?”

I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him.

After all, Summer was my trusted friend. The one who held my hand at the wedding. The one who stayed up with me during my pregnancy scares. The one I used to call my sister. So, I turned a blind eye… and stayed.

Even when they started showing signs—subtle at first, then slowly no longer trying to hide it—I stayed quiet.

The way Summer’s hand lingered just a bit too long on his arm when they joked. The way they always exchanged glances during dinners, as if they shared some inside joke I wasn’t invited to. Late-night chats between them that lit up his phone screen long after I had fallen asleep. At first, I thought I was being paranoid. Overthinking. Hormonal.

But Summer began leaving little hints—cruel in their carelessness.

Once, she sent me a photo of them at a “client lunch,” and when I asked why she’d send that, she replied, “Oops, wrong chat. Sorry, babe! Total mistake lol.”

Another time, she messaged me: “If I were you, I’d start checking his phone more… men can be weak sometimes, right?”Followed by a wink emoji.

She even knew things she shouldn’t—details of my arguments with Treston, things I had only told him. And yet she’d bring them up, twisting them into jokes, into playful digs.

I saw it. I felt it.

But I still stayed.

Because I was pregnant.

And because I still wanted to believe they wouldn’t do that to me.

I was a fool.

But two days ago, everything crumbled.

I was seven months pregnant. Feeling dizzy. Cramping. Something didn’t feel right. I called Treston, asking him to take me to the hospital.

But it wasn’t Treston who answered.

It was Summer.

“Oh, hey. He’s busy right now,” she said, giggling between moans, and in a low teasing whisper said, “In between my thighs. Oh…”

I couldn’t even speak. I ended the call, hands shaking, and dragged myself down from the bed.

I walked alone. I remember the screech of tires before anything else. The smell of beer. The crash.

Then blackness.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a sterile hospital room. IV in my arm. Pain slicing through my abdomen.

The nurse stood beside me, her eyes too careful.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “The baby… couldn’t be saved.”

I froze, not knowing what to do. I reached for my phone and called the one person I still hoped would care. But instead of comfort, his voice was ice.

“Of course it’s your fault,” he snapped. “You can’t even protect your own baby. You’re useless. Honestly, it should’ve been you who died instead. But it’s better now, it’s not like I care. Just go to work once you’re done in the hospital, I have a lot of things you need to do.”

Right. I was no longer a wife but just his secretary now.

Then he hung up. That was it.

No hospital visit. No tears. No apology.

The next morning, I received a message.

From Summer. A series of photos—her, Treston, and a little boy. Around three years old. Treston’s eyes. Summer’s curls. They went on a trip out of the country while I was bleeding to death.

Don’t worry about the baby, He never cared anyway. He already has an heir. Why don’t you vanish? You’re the mistress in this story. You always were.

That was the last straw. I knew I had to leave.

My thoughts were interrupted when a nurse came into the room, clipboard in hand. “Mrs. Villarez, you’re cleared for discharge now.”

I nodded slowly. Dragged myself up.

Pain throbbed in my side, but I moved like a ghost—quiet, invisible, floating between walls that no longer held any meaning.

As I stepped into the hallway, I pulled out my phone again and called my lawyer.

“I want a divorce,” I said coldly. “Immediately.”