After You Killed Me, I Chose Myself

In the tenth year of our marriage, Byron Whitney was keeping a mistress.

Her name was Dora Fox, and she loved extreme sports.

Skydiving, bungee jumping, canyoneering, ice climbing……

Every time, Byron went with her, no matter how dangerous it was.

The day before my thirty-fifth birthday, Dora threw a fit because she wanted to go mountain-climbing in the southern Himalayas.

For the first time, I put my foot down. “Byron, my right eyelid has been twitching for days.”

“And you promised me. Today and tomorrow, your time belongs to me.”

Because I stopped him, Dora got angry, broke up with Byron, and went to the southern Himalayas alone.

She was caught in an avalanche. She and her unborn baby both died.

Byron, consumed with grief, got behind the wheel and ran me down, sending me flying several meters.

“Vera Sullivan, this is all your fault!”

“I'd rather have died with Dora than have to look at your face.”

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the day before my birthday.

Byron had his arm around Dora's waist, his voice dripping with impatience.

“I'm taking Dora to climb that mountain. We'll celebrate your birthday next year.”

……

The feeling of dying was still so vivid that it took me a full ten seconds to come back to myself.

Byron's eyes on me were ice-cold, laced with undisguised disgust.

“Vera, this time it doesn't matter what you say. Nothing is going to stop me from going to the southern Himalayas with Dora. Even if it kills me, I'll be by her side.”

In my last life, that was not what he'd said.

There was only one explanation. He'd been reborn too.

The realization sent a tremor through my whole body, but it wasn't fear. It was something closer to exhilaration.

God had given both of us a second chance at life. I didn't care what Byron chose to do with his. This time, I was going to seize control of my own fate instead of letting him resent me, instead of letting him kill me with his car.

Dora pressed a hand to her chest, visibly moved. “Is this the fairy-tale love-death they write about in stories? Oh, I must have burned lifetimes of good karma to deserve you.”

Byron's voice went soft, indulgent. “Silly girl, don't talk like that. As long as I'm here, nothing's going to happen to you or the baby.”

When I still said nothing, Byron's brow furrowed tight. “Vera, what—gone mute?”

“Fine.”

“What?”

Shock flickered across Byron's face. He clearly hadn't expected me to say that.

I looked him straight in the eye, my voice steady. “Byron, from now on you can do whatever you want. I won't stop you. But I have one condition. We're getting a divorce.”

Byron let out a cold, derisive scoff, as if he'd just heard the joke of the century.

“Divorce? Vera, I don't know what's gotten into you, but let me make one thing clear. You married me at twenty-five. You've been a housewife for ten solid years. You divorce me, and what? You think you can support yourself?”

Every single time I brought up divorce, Byron pulled out the same script.

The day after our wedding, he'd talked me into quitting my job. Only men who can't provide make their wives work nine to five, he said.

Back then we were deep in love, and I believed every word. I locked myself away willingly in that tiny world of his, waiting at home for him day after day like a fool.

As the years passed, I lost touch with the outside. No friends. I couldn't even leave the house without Byron beside me.

I became anxious, suspicious, timid, full of self-doubt. When I asked to see a therapist, Byron told me I wasn't sick. He said I was just too dependent on him, that my overthinking came from loving him too much.

Even after I found out he was keeping a girl more than a decade younger than him, I didn't have the courage to make a scene, to drag his name through the mud, to ruin him the way he deserved.

He had tamed me completely.

But now, I was going to break out of the cage that had held me for ten years.

Even if I couldn't fly. Even if the fall shattered every bone in my body.

I was going to carve out a life of my own.