Ninety-Nine Times, Then No More

This was the ninety-ninth time I caught my husband, Chase Vargas, with another woman in our five-year marriage. I stood in the hotel doorway, numb, tired of the cheap perfume and his cold, familiar eyes.

But this time, his mistress, a blonde woman, hissed, "He told me all about you. The pathetic wife he's stuck with because of some business deal. He said he can't stand the sight of you."

Her words, meant to hurt, were things I already knew, things Chase had made sure I understood. Still, hearing them from a stranger felt like a new humiliation. She lunged, scratching my face, drawing blood. The sting was a surprising jolt in my numb world. I wrote her a check, a routine part of this pathetic scene.

Then my phone rang. It was Chase, calling from across the room. "What are you doing? Are you making a scene? Clean it up and get out. You're embarrassing." He thought I had orchestrated this, that I was the embarrassing one. The betrayal was casual, complete.

"I'm tired, Chase," I said, the words finally coming from a place I thought had died. "I want a divorce." He laughed, a cruel sound. "A divorce? Elena, don't be ridiculous. You love me too much to ever leave me." I hung up.

He then handed me a signed divorce agreement, telling me his true love, June, my adopted sister, was back. He wanted me to play the dutiful wife for her welcome-home concert. My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a final, crushing blow. He wasn't divorcing me because I wanted it. He was divorcing me for her.

I signed the papers. The ninety-ninth time was the last time he would do this to me.

Chapter 1

This was the ninety-ninth time.

The ninety-ninth time in our five-year marriage that I had caught my husband, Chase Vargas, with another woman. I stood in the doorway of the hotel room, my hand still on the knob. The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume and expensive champagne.

A woman with blonde hair scrambled to cover herself with a sheet. Chase didn't bother. He sat on the edge of the bed, perfectly calm, and looked at me with those cold, familiar eyes. There was no apology, no guilt. Just annoyance.

I was just tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion that had replaced all the other feelings long ago. The pain, the hope, the love-it had all been ground down to this. Numbness.

"Get out," the blonde woman hissed, pulling the sheet tighter around her chest.

I looked at her, then back at Chase. He didn't say a word. He just watched, as if this were a show put on for his entertainment.

"He's my husband," I said. My voice was flat.

The woman laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Husband? Don't make me laugh. He told me all about you. The pathetic wife he's stuck with because of some business deal. He said he can't stand the sight of you."

Each word was meant to hurt, but they were things I already knew. Things Chase had made sure I understood from the very first day. Still, hearing them from a stranger's lips felt like a new kind of humiliation.

"You should have more respect for yourself," I told her, my voice still empty of emotion.

She suddenly lunged off the bed, her face twisted in rage. "You bitch!"

Her hand came up, nails first, aiming for my face. I didn't flinch. I just stood there. Her nails raked down my cheek, drawing blood. The sting was sharp, a surprising jolt in my numb world. It was almost a relief to feel something physical.

I reached into my purse, took out my checkbook, and wrote out a number. I tore it off and held it out to her. "Here. For your time. And for the scratch."

The woman stared at the check, then at me, her mouth hanging open. "What is this? You think you can buy me off?"

"Yes," I said simply. It wasn't about buying her off. It was about ending this pathetic scene. I had done this before. It was part of the routine.

"You rich people are all the same! You think money solves everything!" she shrieked, her voice filled with moral outrage. But her eyes kept darting back to the check.

My phone rang. It was Chase. I glanced at him, still sitting on the bed, now holding his phone to his ear. He was calling me from across the room.

I answered. "Hello?"

"What are you doing?" His voice was impatient, laced with contempt. "Are you making a scene? Clean it up and get out. You're embarrassing."

I felt a cold shock. He thought I had orchestrated this. That I had come here to cause a scene with his mistress. That I was the one who was embarrassing. The betrayal was so casual, so complete.

"I'm tired, Chase," I said, the words finally coming from a place deep inside me. A place I thought had died.

"Tired of what? Playing the victim?" he sneered.

"I want a divorce."

The line went silent for a second. Then he laughed. A low, cruel sound that made my skin crawl.

"A divorce? Elena, don't be ridiculous. You love me too much to ever leave me."

I hung up.

I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in a long time. The man I had loved since I was a teenager. The brilliant, cold CEO of Vargas Industries. Our marriage was a merger, a business arrangement to join his tech empire with my family's real estate dynasty, Carrillo Corp. My father had arranged it, and I had agreed with a secret, hopeful heart.

I remembered seeing him for the first time, tall and impossibly handsome in a dark suit, his presence commanding the entire room. I had fallen for him instantly, a secret I kept locked away for years.

When the marriage was proposed, I thought it was a dream come true. A chance.

The dream shattered on our wedding night. He didn't come to our bed. I found him in his study, staring at a photograph. A picture of my adopted sister, June.

"This is for her," he had told me, his voice like ice. "Everything I'm about to do to you, to your family, is for her. You drove her away. Now you'll pay the price."

I didn't understand then. I didn't know the web of lies June had spun. I only knew pain. He would bring women into our home. He would cancel our plans for a "more important" dinner, and the next day I'd see photos of him with some starlet online. He systematically, methodically, broke me down.

For five years, I endured it. I told myself my love could change him. I told myself he would see the truth one day. Every time he hurt me, I would retreat to my bathroom and drag a silver letter opener across my arm, not deep enough to leave a permanent scar, but just enough to let the physical pain eclipse the emotional agony. A silent record of his cruelty.

I had set a limit for myself. One hundred acts of cruelty. One hundred times he could break my heart before I would let it go. This was the ninety-ninth.

He stood up from the bed, pulling on his shirt. He walked past the other woman as if she didn't exist and stopped in front of me. He looked down at the scratch on my cheek, his expression unreadable.

"She's back," he said, his voice low.

I knew who he meant. June. The popular indie musician, the charismatic victim. My sociopathic sister.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded document. He pushed it into my hand. "I've already signed it."

It was a divorce agreement.

He wanted the divorce. He had always planned to end it the moment his true love returned.

"Don't leave the city," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "June is having a welcome-home concert. There are rumors flying around, and I need you to be the dutiful wife for a little while longer. To shut them up."

My phone buzzed in my hand. A text message. It was from a number I didn't recognize, but I knew who it was from.

Sister, I'm back. Did you miss me? I hear Chase is finally getting rid of you. See you soon.

My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a final, crushing blow. He wasn't divorcing me because I wanted it. He was divorcing me for her.

I looked down at the papers in my hand. Then I looked up at him, my eyes clear and dry.

I walked over to the hotel room's desk, picked up a pen, and signed my name.

Elena Carrillo. Soon to be formerly Mrs. Vargas.

The ninety-ninth time was the last time he would do this to me.