Watch Me Marry Someone Else, My Dear Ex-Husband

The shower hadn’t washed away the cold in my bones. As soon as I dried off, I went straight to the small desk I kept hidden behind my closet door. I pulled out the crisp divorce papers, fresh from the printer, the ink barely dry.

Downstairs, music thumped through the house — the kind of expensive party Marco loved to throw just to show off. Laughter, clinking glasses, murmurs of secrets behind manicured hands. But none of them ever noticed me.

I slipped into the crowd, the folder clutched tight under my arm. I found Marco near the bar, already a few glasses in, his eyes glazed but still sharp when he spotted me.

“What the hell are you doing here? You look like a drowned rat,” he sneered. "If you won't help with the party, then maybe you should be gone."

I forced a tight smile. “It’s urgent, Marco. Some house supply forms. They need your signature tonight.”

He scoffed. “Now? Are you insane? I’m busy.”

“Please. Just sign,” I pressed, keeping my tone even. I could feel the eyes of his friends on me — the pity, the disdain, the curiosity like I was a stray dog that had wandered in to ruin their fun.

Marco reached for the folder but before he could look closer, a commotion broke out. Sandra — draped over the couch like a spoiled cat — gave a theatrical gasp and tumbled to the floor, giggling like a child.

“Oh no,” she slurred, eyes flicking to Marco with that manipulative glint I’d grown to despise. “I tripped… Marco, help me.”

He pushed past me, not sparing a glance. But I stepped in front of him, heart racing. “Sign it. Please.”

He glared at me like I’d just spat in his drink. “For fuck’s sake, Hayley!” But he snatched the pen from my hand anyway, scribbled his name on the line — not even bothering to read it — and tossed the folder back at me. “Happy now?”

“Perfect,” I whispered, my fingers already tucking the papers away safely.

Sandra was up again, wrapping herself around his arm like a snake. “Baby, she’s always ruining your mood. Let’s go upstairs — you promised me a dance.”

He shot me one last disgusted look before disappearing with her into the sea of drunken laughter and clinking glasses.

I made it back to my room. I closed the door, dropped to my knees, and pressed the folder to my chest. It was done. One signature. One step closer to freedom.

I pulled out a bag I’d hidden in the back of my closet months ago — packed and repacked a dozen times in my head. A few clothes, the small stash of money I’d scraped together, my mother’s medical documents. I dumped everything Marco ever gave me into the trash.

Jewelry, dresses — all poisoned by his touch. Except for the necklace my mother left me, hidden deep in my drawer. That, I slipped around my neck. It reminded me I still belonged to someone who once loved me.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, dragging me back. I grabbed it, thinking it was my lawyer confirming the pickup.

But my breath caught when I saw the name: Scott. Marco’s old rival, the man who’d spent years circling our marriage like a vulture.

“Hayley,” he drawled when I answered. His voice was smooth, smug, but there was a strange warmth there too. “Your father told me what that bastard did. You always deserved better.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “That’s a generous way to put it.”

“So?” he said. “You want out. I can help you. Marry me. It’ll be fun, scandalous even. Marco will choke on it.”

I pressed my hand to my lips, stifling a hysterical giggle. Was it reckless? Yes. But better reckless than rotting here another day. “Fine. You want me, Scott? You can have me. I’ll be waiting.”

“Good girl. Don’t back out,” he warned lightly.

“I won’t.” I hung up just as the doorknob rattled. “I’m packing my things. I’m coming.”

Marco. His silhouette filled the doorway when he burst in, eyes bloodshot from drink and jealousy.

“Who the hell were you talking to? And what’s with you packing your things?” He stormed across the room, snatching my phone from my hand. “Password.”

I just tilted my head. “Our anniversary.”

He punched it in — February 18th — and the phone buzzed red. Wrong.

He glared. “What’s this shit? Our anniversary is the eighteenth.”

I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “No, Marco. That’s you and Harriet. Your anniversary with her. Not me.”

His face went pale, rage flickering in his eyes. “Tell me who it was.”

“No one,” I lied. “I’m packing. I want to stay with Mom at the hospital for a few days.”

He barked out a laugh. “Did I give you permission? You didn’t even help tonight. Look at you — acting like you have rights.”

His fingers dug into my arms. He threw my phone across the room; it shattered against the dresser.

Sandra’s sickly sweet voice drifted in from the hallway. “Is everything okay? Oh — are you fighting about me again? Maybe it’s about me staying here a while longer?”

I blinked at her, words trapped in my throat. I hadn’t even known she’d moved in. Marco’s grin was cold. “No, baby, it’s nothing. She just thinks she can walk out.”

Sandra slithered closer, hooking her arm around his. “Well, maybe when we’re in Tokyo, she can stay with her little coma mom, right? So she won’t feel so lonely.”

Marco nodded, dismissive. “Good idea. For now, clean up the mess, Hayley.”

They started to walk out. Sandra paused in the doorway, leaning in close so only I could hear. “Be thankful I agreed. Maybe you and your dying mother can both rot together. You’re nothing, Hayley. You always have been.”

She spotted the necklace around my neck — my mother’s last gift — and ripped it away with a cruel laugh. “Oh, this? Mine now.”