Signed Away: His New Wife

**IVY POV**

Dyllan' s concern was a thin veneer, easily scratched. He wasn't really worried about my emotional state. He was worried about the disruption to his perfectly ordered life, the one where I was always stable, always supportive, always there. I heard him shift his weight outside my door, a nervous energy radiating even through the wood.

"Ivy? You're not answering. I'm starting to worry." His voice was a practiced blend of care and mild annoyance.

I rolled my eyes. Worry. He didn' t know the meaning of the word. I knew it intimately. I had lived with it for years, worrying about his career, his parents' health, Heather' s endless demands.

"I' m fine, Dyllan," I called out, my voice flat, devoid of the soft reassurance he always expected from me. "Just studying."

"Studying?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "For what? You finished your undergrad years ago."

I paused. No point in telling him my real plans yet. It would only cause a scene, a drama I couldn't afford right now. "Just some online courses," I lied, vaguely. "Keeping my mind sharp."

"Right. Well, I just wanted to make sure you're okay. And, uh, about the money." He cleared his throat. "The twenty-five hundred you gave me for the deposit on that apartment?"

My ears perked up. The apartment. The small, dingy apartment we were supposed to move into after the wedding. I had paid the deposit, my hard-earned savings, because Dyllan had claimed his police salary barely covered his own expenses, let alone a nest egg. He had said he' d pay me back when his next bonus came through. He never did.

"Yes?" I prompted, my voice ice cold.

He stammered. "Well, Heather had another one of her… emergencies. Her credit card bill was huge, and Coralie was really upset. Heather was crying, saying she had no money for food. So, I… I kind of used a little bit of that deposit money to help her out." He rushed the words, as if speeding through them would make them less offensive. "But I promise, I' ll pay you back. As soon as my next paycheck comes in. Maybe two paychecks."

I closed my eyes, a wave of weariness washing over me. This was Dyllan. Always the savior. Always sacrificing my needs, my money, for Heather' s manufactured crises. This wasn' t just a one-time thing. It was a pattern, a deep rut carved by years of enabling. In my past life, he had done the same with our honeymoon fund, our down payment for a house, even money for our child' s school. Always, Heather' s needs were more urgent, more deserving.

"How much?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft.

"Uh, two thousand," he mumbled. "But Ivy, she really needed it! You know how fragile she is."

Two thousand dollars. My heart didn't clench with hurt, not anymore. It just felt cold, like a stone. It was money I desperately needed for Chicago. But I had a plan.

"Get out, Dyllan," I said, my voice firm. "I' m busy. And I want that money back. All of it. Before the end of the week."

"Before the end of the week?" He sounded incredulous. "Ivy, that' s impossible! Do you know how much a police officer makes? And for Heather, you know I can' t just… It' s not like you need it right now anyway. You're always so frugal. Why are you being so selfish?" His voice took on a sharp, injured tone.

Selfish. The word echoed in my mind, a cruel joke. I chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Frugal? Or self-sacrificing, Dyllan? There's a difference. And don't you dare call me selfish. You have no idea what that word truly means."

"Well, you just don't understand how hard it is for me!" he pleaded, his voice rising. "I'm trying to take care of everyone! And you're just making it harder."

"Leave," I repeated, my voice devoid of emotion. "And get me my money."

I heard him huff, a frustrated sound, then his footsteps retreated. The front door slammed shut a few minutes later. Good.

I spent the next few days in a blur of activity. I quietly sold almost everything I owned that held no sentimental value – my old textbooks, some clothes I rarely wore, trinkets and gifts Dyllan had given me over the years. Each item sold was a tiny step towards my freedom. The engagement ring he had given me, a modest diamond he had picked out with Coralie' s 'help' , went first. It fetched a decent price. I felt nothing but relief as I handed it over. It was never a symbol of love, but a tether to a life I no longer wanted.

On Thursday evening, Dyllan knocked on my door. He looked tired, his handsome face lined with stress. He held out an envelope.

"Here," he said, his voice clipped. "Two thousand. I had to borrow it from a patrol buddy. You happy now?"

I took the envelope, not bothering to count the cash. "Content," I corrected him. "Not happy."

His eyes narrowed as he noticed the nearly empty closet, the packed bags discreetly tucked away. "What are you doing?"

Just then, Coralie's voice drifted from the living room. "Dyllan, honey, Heather's on the phone! She's worried about her dress for the wedding!"

Dyllan's head snapped towards the sound. His priorities, as always, were clear.

"Ivy, what are you doing?" he asked again, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes, quickly overshadowed by his usual distraction. "Are you packing for the honeymoon? I told you we can't afford that exotic island Heather talked about right now."

I gave him a small, tight smile. "No honeymoon, Dyllan. Not for me. Not with you."

His face paled. "What... what are you talking about?"

Coralie's voice, sharper this time, called, "Dyllan! She needs you!"

He looked torn, his eyes darting between me and the living room. The struggle lasted only a second. Heather always won.

"I need to go," he said, already backing away. "We'll talk later. You're just stressed. Maybe you need a break."

He still thought I was the old Ivy, the one who would explain, beg, fight for his attention. He couldn't grasp the cold, hard reality of my detachment. I didn't want to explain. I didn't want to fight. I wanted out.

"Don't worry about me, Dyllan," I said, a strange, hollow feeling in my chest. "I'm fine. You go make sure Heather's dress is perfect. That's what really matters, isn't it?"

He nodded, a relieved expression spreading across his face. "Yes! Exactly! You get it, Ivy. You always do." He turned, his hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.

His words, his easy dismissal, only solidified my resolve. He still didn' t see me. He never would.

Suddenly, Heather appeared at the end of the hall, her eyes red-rimmed, a delicate lace dress draped over her arm. "Dyllan, they said the seamstress can't fix it in time unless we pay extra! And it's so expensive!" She burst into fresh tears, her face crumbling into a picture of perfect distress.

Dyllan was at her side in an instant, his arm around her, murmuring reassurances. He didn' t even glance back at me.

I watched them, a strange calm settling over me. The stage was set. The players were in position. I closed my bedroom door, but I didn' t lock it this time. The game had changed. My future was waiting.