I Left During His Honeymoon

"I'll give you ten minutes. If you don't do it, I’m not gonna let this slide."

Eric tossed out that little threat right before hanging up, like he was scared I might actually say no.

Back then, anytime he said he was mad, I'd cave. Not because I feared his anger—I just didn't want to pile more stress on him. Thought he was drowning in work, thought I was helping.

Now I knew better.

The chaos? Always his. I was just the one stuck cleaning it up.

Why keep doing that?

[You forgot your card? Ask your secretary. Or Vivien. This trip was for her project anyway. Let her pay for it.]

I fired off the message, shut my phone down, and headed home to pack.

I paid for the house. Every cent.

It was his favorite layout, his pick on the flooring. I even planned to put both our names on the deed... but something held me back. In the end, I wrote down only mine.

Looking back? Thank God I did.

Once everything was packed, I listed the house with a realtor.

The next day, I marched into the courthouse and handed over the signed divorce papers.

Back when we first signed them, I was still wondering how to break it to Eric. But he was already halfway out the door, dragging his suitcase like we were on a tight schedule.

He didn't even glance at the papers. Just flipped to the last page and signed.

"You should read it," I said, still hanging on to some tiny scrap of hope.

"No need. You're my wife. Don't I trust you?"

I smiled—cold and bitter.

Funny. He trusted Vivien with everything else.

That so-called trust? Just another way to brush me off.

Too busy chasing a flight. Too eager to join Vivien on "their" honeymoon.

I handed over the papers. The clerk said I needed proof—from him—that the relationship was actually over.

So I pulled out the receipts: photos of Eric and Vivien posing like a couple. Even brought the wedding photo he'd smashed for her.

Still, the clerk shook her head. "He has to say it himself."

Seriously?

Frustrated, I turned my phone back on.

It lit up like a Christmas tree—missed calls, unread messages. All from Eric.

Since I hadn't unfrozen the card, he'd cycled through the usual: begging, threatening.

The last message? Full-on rage. Swearing at me. Saying he wanted a divorce.

I showed it to the clerk.

She still wasn't budging.

So I called him. Took forever for him to answer.

"Eric, about our relationship—"

"What relationship? You're wasting your breath. If you don't apologize to Vivien, I will divorce you!"

He cut me off, cold. Like he thought I was calling to grovel.

Then he hung up.

That did it. The clerk's face finally softened as she processed the paperwork. "It'll be finalized in a month."

Eric wasn't serious. He never was.

He'd tossed around "divorce" like a threat for years—whenever he got pissed.

And I always folded. Always made peace, gave in, held things together.

He was convinced I'd never actually leave.

To him, "divorce" wasn't an ending. It was a weapon.