My Husband Divorced Me For His "Dying" Ex

Ivy

"She's alive, Ivy!"

"Who?"

"Celeste."

The box almost slipped out of my hands. I caught it against my stomach.

Adrian hadn't taken his coat off. Rain dripped from the hem onto the rug, and he didn't notice. He didn't notice the candles either, or the table, or the dress I'd bought for tonight.

"Celeste..?" I repeated. "Adrian, Celeste drowned seven years ago. You buried an empty coffin."

"Someone pulled her out of the water." he said, his breath coming fast and defensive before I’d even said a word. "She's been in a clinic in Geneva this whole time. She didn't want me to see her sick."

"Sick?"

"She has Cancer. It's severe and has spread across her body. They've given her six months." He finally looked at me. "And she wants to spend them as my wife."

I stared at him.

"Wha... what?" I actually laughed a little, because it had to be a joke. "Adrian, I don't... I don't understand. A woman from your past comes back from the dead and wants to be your wife? You have a wife. I'm standing right here."

"It's her final fucking wish, Ivy." His voice went flat and hard. "What part of that don't you get? In case you've forgotten, she's the one who dragged me out of that car. I'd be dead without her. If this is how I pay her back, then you'll have to understand."

"And me? What am I supposed to..."

"Don't!" He cut me off. "Don't make this about you. She's dying, and you're standing there counting what you'll lose. That's selfish, and you know it."

"Selfish? SELFISH?! I've been your wife for three years."

"On paper! My grandmother wanted it, so I gave it to her. Don't pretend it was ever anything else."

The gift box was still in my hands. Cream paper, wrapped in a ribbon. Inside, a tiny bottle of perfume I'd made specially for him, and under it the scan from the clinic. Nine weeks pregnant. I'd practiced in the mirror for twenty minutes how I would hand it to him. I was eager to see the excitement on his face.

"Look, don't make this harder than it needs to be. I have never done anything for her and I... I can't..." He stopped. Pressed his lips together. "I want a divorce, Ivy. Quickly. She doesn't have time for anything slow."

I could feel a shiver run down my spine. I couldn’t possibly process what my ears had just heard. My mouth opened, and what came out was, "Okay."

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. Then his eyes dropped to my hands. "What's that?"

"Nothing." My voice sounded far away. "Your anniversary present."

He took it out of my fingers without looking at it and pushed it into his coat pocket. "I'll open it later."

"Adrian, wait, there's something I want to tell..."

"There's something else," he cut me off entirely. "Celeste wants a wedding. A real one. And you've done every event this family has had for three years. You did the gala, Grandmother's birthday, the board retreat in Positano. You know every vendor in Halden. I want you to plan it."

I laughed. A short, ugly little sound, straight out of my chest. I couldn't stop it.

He didn't laugh.

"You're... you're serious."

"She lands tomorrow at eleven. She'll stay in the east wing until the wedding. The nurses will need rooms too." He checked his watch. "Make sure she's comfortable."

"In our house?"

"In my house."

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. He waited impatiently, the way he waited on Theo when a file was late.

"Yes," I said.

"Good." Not even a thank you. He was already turning away. "Halloran will bring the papers."

He was halfway up the stairs when I found my voice.

"Adrian."

He stopped, one hand on the banister.

"The present. Please. Just open it."

"I said later, Ivy."

He went up the rest of the stairs two at a time, still in the coat, with my box in the pocket. The study door closed.

The candles were stubs. I'd lit them at seven. It was after midnight.

I sat down in his chair. I looked at the ring on my finger, the sapphire his grandmother chose because he couldn't be bothered to, and my throat closed up.

I held it as long as I could. Then I put my hand over my mouth so the night staff wouldn't hear me and cried until my stomach cramped and I had no more tears left. The cramp scared me. I pressed my hand flat over my stomach.

"Sorry," I whispered. "Sorry, baby. I'm sorry."

When it stopped, I blew out the candles. I carried both bowls of bisque to the kitchen, his untouched, and poured them down the sink. I'd made it myself. The chef was off on Thursdays.

Then I went up to our room, lay down in my dress, and watched the door. Just hoping that this was all a prank and that he would walk in through that door, holding the photo of his unborn child, celebrating.

He never came.