After my divorce, I became a racing queen

“Liam, this wedding dress is so beautiful. Can I have it?” Vanessa’s voice rang out from the stairs, light and sugary, like she already knew the answer.

Liam didn’t even hesitate.

“Clara, give your wedding dress to Vanessa. She’s young, beautiful—it’ll look better on her anyway. You just stay home doing chores all day. You think a tired housewife with a shapeless figure should still be wearing a wedding dress?”

Vanessa giggled softly, looping her arm through his.

“Oh, Liam, you always treat me the best.”

I stood there frozen, the words slicing into me one by one.

That gown wasn’t just fabric—it was mine. I’d designed it for our wedding, spent eight years adjusting every lace and stitch. It held all the love, the patience, the foolish hope I had poured into him.

So no, I couldn’t blame Vanessa for liking it. It was beautiful—because it was made for love.

Liam noticed my red eyes and sighed, his tone turning cold.

“Don’t be so petty. Just name your price.”

Petty? Eight years of being treated like a servant in my own marriage, and now even the wedding dress I’d waited half a lifetime for was up for sale.

What price could you put on that kind of humiliation?

None worth counting.

I didn’t respond. I just glanced at my phone—

a single message glowing on the screen:

The registration form’s in. I’ll come pick you up.

I unlocked the glass cabinet and took out the gown, placed it neatly aside, then turned and walked back to the guest room.

Their laughter echoed behind me, sticky and sweet as poison.

---

That night, I sat at my desk, reviewing recent race club data. My focus was sharp, deliberate—like a blade I was slowly sharpening.

Then came the knock.

Vanessa stood in the doorway, her lips curved in a mocking smile.

I didn’t bother hiding my irritation. “What do you want?”

She leaned casually against the doorframe, looking down at me like I was something beneath her heel.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” she said, her voice smooth and taunting. “You’ve gotten cleverer since the last time.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied flatly. “I’m tired. I’d like to rest.”

Vanessa’s smirk deepened. She stepped closer until her perfume invaded my space.

“I heard,” she whispered near my ear, “that you can’t get pregnant anymore.”

My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms.

She smiled—satisfied, cruel.

“How about a bet? Want to guess how long it’ll take me to get pregnant with Liam’s child? Or maybe you’d like to guess where that vegetable juice from three years ago came from?”

I froze. The air left my lungs. My voice came out trembling, thin as a thread.

“Get out.”

She straightened, her smile widening like victory, and left.

The moment the door clicked shut, my knees gave way. I slid down to the floor, covering my face as quiet sobs escaped me.

Because she was right.

I would never have children again.

The first time, I’d miscarried after drinking the “vegetable juice” Liam brought home.

The second time… Noah had spilled oil on the stairs. I slipped.

The baby was gone before I even made it to the hospital.

I bit my lip, swallowing the sound of my grief, but pain doesn’t disappear when you silence it. It only digs deeper, like countless needles piercing skin and bone until there’s nothing left but emptiness.

---

I woke up the next morning to laughter drifting from the backyard.

Through the window, I saw Vanessa playing with Noah in the garden. Liam sat nearby, watching them with a gentle smile.

They looked perfect—like the family I’d pretended we were for eight years.

I closed the window, but no glass could block out their laughter.

I grabbed my bag and headed out. There were still forms to submit—licenses, race registration, proof of identity.

Just as I reached the door, Vanessa appeared, her expression dripping with smugness.

“Heading out? Great timing. I want the pastries from that little shop in the north alley. Could you grab some for me?”

Then she smiled, tilting her head. “Thank you, Madam Mentor.”

She dragged out the words deliberately, as if branding me with them.

My gaze fell to the faint red marks on her neck. My hands curled into fists before I could stop them.

I didn’t answer. I just walked past her, the air too thick to breathe.

---

I didn’t go home right away after finishing my paperwork.

I wandered—city blocks, empty cafés, the quiet hum of traffic filling the silence I couldn’t bear at home.

When I finally returned that evening, Liam’s voice cut through the air like a whip.

“You come home and can’t even say hello?”

I ignored him, slipped off my shoes.

His tone hardened. “Clara. Come here.”

I placed my shoes neatly in the cabinet, keeping my face calm.

“There are things I don’t like repeating,” he said, his voice low—dangerously low.

I didn’t want to provoke him, not now, not when I was so close to being free. I crossed the room and sat down beside him.

He studied me, frowning. “Where were you all day? You didn’t make dinner for Vanessa or Noah. We had to eat takeout because you couldn’t do the one thing you’re good at.”

I kept my voice even. “I was just out walking.”

Something flickered in his eyes—something uncertain, fleeting.

He picked up a piece of carrot and dropped it into my bowl. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Eat something, then go to bed.”

I stared at the orange slice in my bowl. My lips curved in a small, humorless smile.

“Liam, I’m allergic to carrots.”

He froze. Just for a second.

But before he could speak, I pushed back my chair and left the dining room.

---

After my shower, I came out to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through my laptop.

My chest tightened. “Is there something you need?”

He looked up. “Your room’s missing a lot of things lately.”

My pulse skipped. For a second, I thought he’d seen something—something that would ruin everything.

“I got bored of the decor,” I said lightly. “Just changing things up.”

He nodded slowly, seeming to accept it.

But then his voice dropped lower.

“Someone just messaged you. Asked when you’re coming back to the track.”

He stood and stepped closer, searching my face. “What track, Clara? What’s going on that I don’t know about?”

I forced my expression to stay neutral. “It’s a game. Just a racing sim. Don’t overthink it.”

He stared at me for a long moment. I couldn’t tell if he believed me or not—but finally, he said nothing more.

I thought he’d leave after that.

But instead, he reached out and wrapped an arm around my waist.

I flinched—hard—pressing my hands against his chest.

The shock in my reaction made him scowl.

There was a time when I’d have melted into that touch—when I’d been desperate for it. But now, all I felt was cold.

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my ear.

I couldn’t stand it. I pushed him away, hard enough to make him stumble.

Breathing unevenly, I whispered, “I’m sorry… I’m not feeling well tonight.”