Never Again, Never You

In the two years after Bradley Vaughn's so-called "memory loss," we divorced seven times—all to keep his childhood crush Vivian Monroe happy.

Number eight? Because she got pregnant.

"You can't have kids anyway. Once Vivian has the baby, we'll get back together. You can raise the kid."

That was his usual ice-cold line as he slid the papers across the table.

That night, he kicked me out—said Vivian got nauseous just seeing me. I moved into another house. Alone. In the rain.

Even after I landed in the ER from a near assault, he didn't bother asking if I was okay.

Then one day, I spotted him at a clinic with Vivian. He rubbed her belly and laughed,

"So what if she finds out I faked the amnesia? She can't live without me. Toss her a bone, she'll come crawling."

I looked away, steady.

Then my phone buzzed.

[How did your checkup go?]

I glanced down at the blurry shape on the ultrasound. Bitterness hit me hard.

I thought I'd never get this chance again. Never thought I'd be this lucky.

My phone buzzed. Nathan Hartley again.

[I'll be back tomorrow. Don't be scared.]

I was about to text back when Vivian's syrupy voice floated over.

"Bradley, who do you think our baby will look like?"

"Obviously you," he said. "Eyes like yours... the mouth..."

His voice was soft—gentler than I'd ever heard.

Then our eyes met. He froze.

"Serena? What are you doing here?"

His voice turned cold, like I was the one out of line.

My fingers curled around the ultrasound, the paper crunching in my hand.

Vivian saw me and instantly latched onto his arm, flashing the ring on her finger like a trophy.

My old wedding ring. A Vaughn heirloom passed down to daughters-in-law—until she said she liked it. Then it was hers.

I didn't want to give it up. Bradley had someone rip it off me anyway. Snapped my pinky in the process.

Vivian giggled behind her hand, all cozy against his chest.

"Serena, here for a checkup too? But didn't Bradley say you can't have kids?"

Straight-up mockery. And he still couldn't see it.

He forgot he was the one who picked Vivian first.

I couldn't have kids because help came too late.

I still remember the crash—trapped, a metal shard in my gut, blood soaking my thighs.

Bradley climbed out, saw me, bleeding, barely conscious. Then he hesitated.

"Vivian's worse. I'll get her first. I'll come back."

Her "injury"? A shallow cut.

I stayed in that flipped car, fading fast, the last thing I saw was his back walking away.

Too much blood loss. My uterus was done.

And somehow, that turned into his favorite excuse to keep hurting me—ripping open wounds I was trying to bury.

I stayed quiet through her digs.

Then she clutched her stomach, fake-gagging.

"Bradley, I feel sick again!"

Even that pathetic act—he still didn't see through it.

The first time we divorced? Vivian had a fever. Said