He Gave Her the Wedding, I Gave Him Divorce

Evangeline's POV

"You call this a birthday party?" Marguerite, my mother-in-law's voice echoed the room.

She stood in the doorway, eyeing the decorations like I'd committed some crime. "Even the servants' children get better celebrations than this."

I forced my hands to stay steady while I fixed the lopsided balloons. It took everything I had not to snap back. "Theo likes simple things. Too much going on overwhelms him."

She just waved me off, rolling her eyes. "Theo, Theo, Theo. Always an excuse for that boy. If you'd actually taken care of yourself when you were pregnant, he wouldn't be so… difficult."

That word. Difficult. She spat it out like it tasted bad. She meant Theo, my son—my sweet boy who saw the world his own way.

Difficult. Sure. That's what she called him just because he had autism.

"The cake's his favorite," I said quietly. Trying not to let her see how much she was getting to me. "Chocolate, with—"

But Marguerite couldn't let me finish. "Where's Dashiell?" She glanced at her diamond-studded watch, lips pressed thin. "He should be here by now. It's his son's birthday, after all. Not that I blame him for needing a break from this gloomy house."

I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted blood.

Theo sat in the corner, cross-legged on the rug, lining up his toy cars by color. Red, blue, yellow, green—again and again.

He didn't even flinch during Marguerite's tirade. Sometimes I wished I could tune out the world as he did.

"And just look at this cake!" Marguerite kept going, relentlessly. "Store-bought? You didn't even bother to bake? What kind of mother—"

The front door opened.

"We're here!" Dashiell Hart, my husband's voice echoed down the hall, lighter than usual. Almost happy.

He walked in with a woman at his side. She was delicate, almost see-through, with these deep shadows under her eyes that made her look… fragile, somehow.

I knew her. From the photos hidden in Dashiell's study. The ones he thought I hadn't found.

Sabrina Blake. His first love.

"Evangeline, Mom, we have a guest." Dashiell's eyes sparkled in a way I'd never seen when he looked at me. "Sabrina."

Marguerite transformed right in front of me. All that coldness vanished.

Suddenly she was beaming, practically glowing. "Sabrina! Oh, darling!" She swept her into a hug. "It's been ages! You look wonderful—well, a bit thin, but are you eating enough?"

Her voice dripped with concern, and my stomach twisted. She'd never once asked if I was eating enough. Not when I dropped fifteen pounds from the stress of raising Theo on my own. Not ever.

"I'm managing," Sabrina said, barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry to intrude. Dashiell insisted—"

"Nonsense! You're always welcome here." Marguerite practically sang.

I stood at the table, invisible.

Dashiell finally glanced at me. "Evangeline, could you get some refreshments? Sabrina's had a long day."

Not a question. An order.

"Of course." My voice sounded flat and far away.

"Oh, and Evangeline?" Marguerite didn't bother to meet my eyes. "Try not to drop anything this time. We have an important guest."

My face went hot, but I kept my mouth shut.

For the next hour, I wasn't the hostess. I was the helper.

I brought drinks. Served cake no one touched because Sabrina preferred tea instead. Smiled while Marguerite doted on Sabrina's "natural grace" and "inner strength."

In the corner, Theo continued playing with his cars. No one sang to him. No one lit his candles.

It was as if his birthday party had never existed.

"Honestly, Evangeline, must you hover so?" Marguerite snapped when I came to clear some plates. "You're making everyone uncomfortable."

"I'm just—"

"Here, let me help." Sabrina stood gracefully, reaching for a glass of water on the table. "You've done so much already, Evangeline. Let me—"

Our hands met on the glass. It slipped.

Water exploded across the hardwood floor, splashing onto Marguerite's designer shoes and the hem of her dress.

"Evangeline!" The shriek from her could've shattered crystal. "You incompetent, useless—"

"It was an accident…" I grabbed napkins, dropping to my knees to clean up the mess.

"An accident? You're a walking disaster! I've tolerated your inadequacy for years, but this is beyond—" Marguerite screamed.

"Mom, please." Dashiell's voice cut through the room.

Finally. Finally, he'd defend me.

I looked up at him, hope flickering weakly in my chest.

His eyes were on Sabrina, not me. "Are you alright? Did you get wet?"

"I'm fine," Sabrina said quickly, her hand on his arm. "Really, it was my fault. I shouldn't have reached—"

"Stop making excuses for her, Sabrina. You're too kind." Dashiell's gaze finally landed on me, cold and disappointed. "Evangeline, Sabrina was only trying to help. Why are you being so defensive?"

The hope died. Drowned in that spilled water on the floor.

"I... I'm sorry." I finished cleaning in silence, my hands shaking.

When I stood, Marguerite had already swept Sabrina into the living room, their laughter echoing down the hall.

Dashiell caught my wrist. His grip was firm, unyielding.

"To the study. Now. We need to talk."

My heart hammered against my ribs as I followed him down the hallway. Maybe he'd apologize for embarrassing me. Maybe he'd see how wrong tonight had been.

He closed the door and turned to face me, his jaw tight.

"Sabrina is dying."

"Oh…" I didn’t know how to react.

"Stage four cancer. Six months, maybe less." He ran his hand through his hair, and for the first time all evening, emotion cracked through his mask. "Her husband divorced her when he found out. Bastard left her alone."

"That's... God, that's terrible." And it was. Despite everything, I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

"I want to help her." He pulled an envelope from his desk drawer. "I want to take care of her. Let her spend her last months in peace."

"We can help," I said carefully. "Set up a fund, or help with medical bills—"

"I want to marry her."

The words didn't make sense. Couldn't make sense.

"I want to give her the wedding she never had. Make her my wife before she dies." He held out the envelope.

Through the paper, I could see the bold text: Petition for Divorce.

My ears rang.

"It's just temporary," Dashiell continued, his tone reasonable. Business-like. "A fake divorce. Sabrina's dying wish is to be married to me. We'll remarry after everything is... settled. Surely you understand."

I stared at him. This man I'd loved for five years. The man I'd married in a courthouse because he said weddings were "unnecessary expenses."

"She's loved me quietly all these years, never causing problems, never overstepping." His hand landed on my shoulder, heavy with presumption. "And now she's dying. I need you to do this, Evangeline. Don't be cruel."

Cruel.

That word again.

Five years of his indifference. Five years of his mother's abuse. Five years of raising our son alone. Five years of holding this family together with bleeding, trembling hands.

And I was CRUEL for hesitating to hand him to another woman.

I closed my eyes and saw it all. Every cold bed. Every missed milestone. Every time Marguerite called Theo "defective," Dashiell said nothing.

Every year I'd ask about renewing our vows, about having a real wedding, and he'd say "maybe next year."

But for Sabrina, he'd plan something beautiful.

I opened my eyes.

"Fine," I said, my voice eerily calm. "I'll agree."

Relief washed over his face, like he'd finally been able to breathe again.

But the moment hit hard—the "fake" divorce he was asking for... it wouldn't be fake anymore.