Eleventh Time I died, My Husband Finally Regretted

“This is Hayley Smith,” I said, steadying my breath despite the burning in my throat. “I want to file for divorce… and completely erase my existence from this family.”

There was a pause on the other end. Then a calm but hesitant voice replied, “Mrs. Smith… according to the agreement you signed at marriage, neither party can file for divorce unless one is… deceased. I’m afraid the court may not grant this.”

I closed my eyes, my voice hollow. “Don’t worry. I’ll be dead in a few days anyway. Just prepare the documents. Send them to my husband after.”

And I hung up.

I hadn’t slept all night. My body still ached from the fever. The scratches on my knees from the lake hadn’t healed. My hands were blistered from scrubbing the marble floors with bare skin. But just as I pulled the sheets over me, trying to steal a moment of rest, the door slammed open.

Elisa. She tossed a crumpled apron onto my face, the force jarring my fragile head.

“Get up,” she snapped. “We have visitors coming today. The maid is off. That makes you the housemaid.”

I blinked at her, body aching too much to sit up. “I’m not okay,” I rasped. “I need rest. I have a fever—”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you defying me now?” she hissed. “Jarren said you are to follow everything I say. Or have you forgotten your place?”

I clenched my fists. “No. I didn’t forget. But maybe you did. I’m still his wife. Not you.”

That struck her. Her lips twisted into a sneer, but before she could speak again, I sat up, dizzy and shaking.

“I’m not doing it,” I said. “I’m not your maid. I’m not your victim. Cook your own damn food. You already ruined my life.”

I shouted.

And she crumbled.

Just like always.

Clutching her belly, Elisa collapsed to the floor, wailing like a siren. “Oh no… the baby—! Jarren! Please—!”

He arrived in seconds.

“What’s going on?” he barked, running to her side.

“She… she screamed at me,” Elisa sobbed, pointing at me. “She made me fall. What if I lose the baby?”

Pregnant.

With his child.

I laughed—bitter and broken.

Just a few months ago, I had found out I was pregnant. I had stood in that same room, trembling, holding the test in my hand. And Jarren’s first words were:

“It’s not mine.”

He accused me of sleeping around—based on Elisa’s lies—and forced me to end the pregnancy. I had begged. Screamed. Clutched my stomach like it was already slipping away.

But he didn’t care.

Now, here he was, stroking Elisa’s hair like she was porcelain.

Like she mattered.

And I?

I was just the ghost in the background.

“Go to the kitchen,” he snapped at me. “Prepare something fitting for our guests. Seafood. They’re investors.”

I didn’t argue.

Not anymore.

I dragged myself to the kitchen. The strong scent of shellfish made my stomach churn—I was deathly allergic to it—but no one cared. They never had. I cooked until my hands burned from the steam, plated everything with shaking fingers, and set the table before the guests arrived.

Everything was ready.

And yet, the moment the food was served, the guests grimaced.

“This is terrible,” one muttered. “You let your maid handle this?”

“She’s not even a real cook,” another sneered.

Jarren turned to me with that familiar look of contempt. “What the hell did you do?”

I swallowed hard. “I didn’t taste it. I can’t. I’m allergic—”

“If you’re allergic,” he said coldly, “then why insist on cooking? You could’ve told me instead of ruining everything.”

But he knew. He was the one who rushed me to the hospital years ago, the one who held my hand while I struggled to breathe after accidentally eating seafood. He stayed by my side for days, spoon-feeding me medicine and whispering that he’d never let it happen again.

But that was a different man.

Now, he stood before me—calm, cruel, and deliberate—as he shoved a spoonful of shellfish into my mouth.

His tenth attempt to kill me. My throat began to close instantly. The panic was instant and suffocating. My vision blurred. The walls spun. I dropped to the floor, gasping—fingers clawing for air that wouldn’t come.

And then—darkness.

I woke up hours later in my bed. A glass of water sat on the nightstand.

Next to it, a small bottle of allergy medicine… and a folded note.

Take this.

No name. But the handwriting—it was Jarren’s. He used to leave me notes like this when everything was still in its place between us.

Now, it was just the same cycle.

He hurt me. Then saved me.

Then hurt me again. As if it never happened. As if he was allowed to play god with my life.

I turned away, trying to stand, when my phone buzzed.

It was the lawyer.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Mrs. Smith,” she said. “We can’t move forward with the filing. Your husband was notified accidentally… and he’s already blocked the process. He was furious.”

I didn’t even get to respond before the door slammed open again.

Jarren entered, eyes wild. He threw a crumpled folder onto the bed—the papers I’d signed.

“So you were trying to divorce me?” he said, smirking. “Why? So you can run to the man you cheated on me with?”

“That’s not what happened and you know it—” I tried to stand.

He stepped closer. “I told you once, Hayley. The only way out of this marriage is death. You want out? Then die.”

Tears welled in my eyes, but I met his gaze anyway.

“Then kill me,” I whispered. “Just do it. But this time, don’t save me after.”

He didn’t reply. He just walked out. Left me sobbing in a house that felt more like a grave every day.

And then I remembered the one person who still might care.

Jarren’s grandmother. She had loved me like her own. She was the only one who ever looked me in the eyes and called me family.

With shaking fingers, I grabbed my phone and dialed the number I never thought I’d call again.

It rang once. Twice.

“Hello?”

“Grandmother,” I breathed, my voice breaking. “Please… help me. I want to leave Jarren. I want to divorce him… please.”