Abandoned, Now My Ex-Husband Begs Me Back

The airport terminal buzzed with the low hum of rolling luggage and overlapping announcements. I sat at a small metal table near Gate 42, staring at the digital departure board.

My new burner phone vibrated against the plastic surface.

An unknown number flashed on the screen.

I picked it up. "Hello."

"Mrs. Mercer. Please do not hang up."

"Your tech department works incredibly fast, Mark."

"They pulled the cab's license plate from the street cameras," the assistant said, his voice completely breathless. "You have to turn around. Mr. Mercer just tore out his IV lines again."

"Tell the nurses to strap him to the bed."

"He broke an orderly's nose! He is completely unhinged. He keeps screaming that he needs to explain something about your honeymoon in Paris. He thinks it is three years ago."

I took a slow sip of my black coffee. The liquid was lukewarm and bitter.

"That sounds like a neurological issue. I am not a neurologist."

"You are his wife! He is bleeding all over the floor, Ivy. He refuses to let the surgeons near him."

"I left the signed divorce papers on the foyer table. Have the legal department file them on Monday."

"He will never sign them. If you do not come back, he is going to kill himself fighting the staff."

"Then let him fight."

"The board of directors is threatening to step in," Mark pleaded, shifting his tactics. "If the shareholders find out the CEO is having a psychotic break in the ICU, the stock will plummet. You have to come calm him down."

"Sell your shares, Mark. The price is about to drop."

"Ivy, I know he treated you poorly lately. But his brain wiped all of that away. He only remembers loving you."

"His amnesia does not erase my memory. Do not call this number again."

I tapped the red icon on the screen.

Two minutes later, the phone vibrated again.

Caller ID: Julian. Lucas's best friend.

"Ivy, what the hell are you doing?" Julian demanded the second I answered.

"Waiting for my flight."

"I am standing outside the ICU. Lucas is sobbing. I have known him for twenty years, and I have never seen him shed a single tear."

"Take a picture, Julian. You can frame it for his office."

"Are you insane? He is broken! He keeps grabbing my shirt, asking why his chest hurts so much. He says he feels like he lost half his soul. He is begging for you."

"He is begging for a version of me he slowly murdered over three years."

"He has three broken ribs and a severe concussion," Julian pushed, his tone growing desperate. "His left arm is shredded from the windshield glass. And he is fighting the doctors so hard he is tearing his own flesh. Do you really want his blood on your hands?"

"It washes off."

"You have to forgive him. He is a clean slate right now. You can start over. Be the couple you used to be."

"I do not want a clean slate. I want an exit."

"He will hunt you down. You know how obsessive he is. If you leave, he will tear New York apart looking for you."

"Then New York will burn."

I ended the call.

The phone buzzed immediately. Another unknown number.

"Ivy Mercer. You get back to this hospital right this instant."

"Hello, Eleanor."

"Do not use that tone with me," my mother-in-law snapped. "My son is fighting for his life, and you abandon him? What kind of monster are you?"

"The kind who walked in on his mistress wearing diamonds bought with our joint account."

"That tramp means nothing! He chased her out! He only wants you. He is screaming your name so loudly his throat is tearing."

"Have Dr. Evans prescribe a throat spray."

"You cruel, heartless girl. He loves you!"

"He loves the convenience of my silence. My silence is no longer available."

"I will transfer the Hamptons estate into your name," Eleanor offered, dropping her anger for a frantic bargain. "I will buy you that gallery in Soho you always wanted. Just come to the hospital and sit by his bed until he falls asleep."

"Keep the estate. I prefer hotels."

"If you do not turn around, I will freeze your trust fund. I will ruin your family's business."

"The trust fund is untouched. My family sold their shares last year. You have absolutely no leverage over me anymore. Goodbye, Eleanor."

I watched the digital departure board flip. My flight to London was boarding in ten minutes.

The burner phone rang one last time.

I almost ignored it. But I needed to sever the final thread.

"Stop calling," I said.

"Ivy?"

The voice was ragged. Torn to shreds. Barely human.

"Lucas."

"You are there. You are actually there." A wet, choking sound came through the speaker. "Baby, please. Please come get me."

"I am not coming."

"Why? Did I do something wrong? I am sorry. I do not know what I did, but I am so sorry. My head is splitting open. Everything is dark in here."

"It will pass."

"It won't! I cannot breathe without you. The doctors keep looking at me with pity. Where are you? Tell me where you are, I will crawl there. I swear to God, I will crawl."

"You do not have to crawl anywhere. You just have to stay right there and forget me completely."

"I will give you anything," Lucas begged, his voice cracking. "Whatever I did, I will fix it. I will buy you the world, Ivy. Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to sign the papers on the table."

"No! Do not say that! You are my wife! You are my whole life!"

"I was a museum exhibit. You said so yourself."

"I never said that! I would never say that!" He sobbed, a loud, ugly, desperate sound. "Ivy, please. I am scared. I am so fucking scared."

"I was scared every night I waited up for you, smelling her perfume on your collars. You survived that. You will survive this."

"Who? I do not know who you are talking about! I only want you!"

"My boarding call is starting."

"Ivy, wait! I will die if you hang up! I will rip these tubes out of my neck right now! I swear it!"

"Go ahead."

I pressed the end button.

I peeled the plastic back off the phone. I plucked the tiny SIM card from its slot.

I snapped the chip in half.

I dropped the broken pieces into the nearest trash bin.

Total numbness settled over my skin. No pain. No regret. Just the cold, sterile air of the terminal.

I grabbed my suitcase handle and joined the first-class line.

I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent.

She scanned the barcode. The machine flashed a bright red light. It emitted a harsh, rejecting beep.

The agent frowned, typing rapidly on her keyboard.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Mercer," she said, her voice tight.

"Is there a problem with my ticket?"

Two men in dark suits stepped out from behind the boarding desk. They flanked the gate, blocking the jet bridge.

"Your ticket has been canceled," one of the men said, pulling a silver badge from his jacket. "And the airspace over JFK has just been locked down."