Days later, I was home alone, numb and listless, like a ghost haunting my own life.

Ryan came home, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He kicked off his shoes the moment he walked in, then flopped onto the sofa.

"Go get me a foot bath."

I didn't move. I just leaned silently against the doorframe, watching him.

He closed his eyes. When I didn't respond, he rested his head on the armrest, rubbing his temples.

"I've been exhausted for days. Don't make things harder. Just be reasonable."

Before, if I’d seen him like this, my heart would have ached. Even if his words were harsh, I would have kneaded his shoulders, massaged his legs, giving him all the tenderness I could.

Now, I just watched him, unmoved. I spoke calmly.

"Ryan, let's get a divorce. You're tired, and so am I."

I regretted getting legally married first. Without that piece of paper, there would have been no wedding, no endless concessions from him, no… this.

I touched my abdomen. It was painfully empty, just like the gaping hole in my chest where my heart used to be.

Now, I just felt foolish. I wanted nothing more to do with him.

Ryan’s hand froze. He opened his eyes, staring at me coldly.

"Avery, do you think this is funny?"

"Aubrey is sick. Why do you insist on arguing with a patient?"

"Do you even realize? If that cut had been half a millimeter deeper, she could have lost her life!"

"How can you be so heartless?"

I scoffed, unmoved. It was just pathetic.

He’d said variations of that phrase countless times. I knew them by heart.

"Oh, really?"

"So what was the outcome?"

"Did she actually die?"

"Last time, the time before that, and the time before that? Did she die any of those times?"

Maybe once, I felt pity. Now, only disgust remained.

Pity her?

Who would pity me?

Ever since Aubrey "fell ill," she’d brazenly claimed my legally wedded husband as her own, right in front of me.

Not only did she monopolize him, she constantly pushed for more.

Anything I had, she demanded. Anything I didn’t, she still wanted!

It started with small Valentine’s gifts—flowers, chocolates, cards.

She’d confront Ryan on the street, accusing him of cheating, asking if he didn't love her anymore.

The result? Aubrey would threaten to end her life, standing on a bridge, poised to jump. And Ryan would snatch my flowers and chocolates, shoving them into her arms.

Only after he promised to pamper only her, would she smile contentedly and drag him home.

That Valentine’s Day, I wasted away in a hotel room, while my husband was comforting another woman in her home.

Back then, Ryan would at least feel guilty. He'd show up at my hotel room the next morning with flowers, a pathetic attempt at an apology.

He’d say she was just sick, and once she was better, he’d leave her.

And I believed him.

Believing him only led to a relentless retreat, step by agonizing step, until I had nothing left to surrender!

I even started gaslighting myself, wondering if fighting for even an inch of my own space or rights meant I was bullying a sick person, if I was just heartless.

Of course, Ryan thought so too.

I kept losing ground in this endless entanglement, going from anger to numbness in less than six months.

It wasn't until I realized Aubrey was faking it that I finally woke up.

But by the time I tried to explain it to Ryan, it was already too late.