Too Late, Mr. Ex: I'm Free

Today is my fifth wedding anniversary. It's also the day my husband, Ethan, asked me for a divorce for the 38th time.

He does this for Ilene, his childhood friend. The woman who crashed her car on our wedding day, leaving her unable to have children. Ever since, he's been repaying a debt of guilt, and I've been the price.

For five years, I endured the cycle of divorce and remarriage. But this time was different. Ilene pushed me down a flight of stairs.

Ethan found me bleeding and promised me justice. He swore he would make her pay.

But days later, the police called. The security footage of the incident had been mysteriously erased. There was no evidence, no case.

That night, Ilene had me kidnapped. As her men tore at my clothes in the back of a van, I managed to call Ethan.

He rejected my call.

I jumped from the moving van. And as I ran for my life, bleeding on the cold asphalt, I made a vow.

This time, there would be no 39th remarriage.

This time, I would disappear.

Chapter 1

Today is our fifth wedding anniversary.

Ethan Bruce, my husband, stands before me. He is as handsome as the day I met him, with sharp eyes and a straight nose. But the words that come out of his mouth are not what you expect on an anniversary.

"Let's get a divorce."

I don't feel shocked. I don't feel sad. I just look at him, my heart a flat, calm line.

"Do you know this is our 38th divorce?" I ask.

A hint of helplessness crosses his eyes. He avoids my gaze.

"Ilene Wolf is threatening to jump off the roof," he says, his voice low. "She says she won't come down unless I divorce you. You know she has anxiety…"

I cut him off. "Hmm, I know."

I've known for five years. I've known through thirty-seven previous divorces.

"So, how long will this one last?" I ask, my voice even.

He looks surprised, as if he expected tears or screaming. He never gets what he expects from me anymore.

"Once her mood stabilizes, we'll get remarried," he promises. He reaches out to touch my shoulder, then his hand stops in mid-air and falls back to his side. "Okay?"

I look at his face, at the conflict in his eyes, and I suddenly find it funny. Terribly, horribly funny.

"Okay," I say. "After all, we owe it to her."

The courthouse staff knows us by name.

"Back again?" The clerk, a woman named Martha, pushes her glasses up her nose. She pulls out the familiar forms without even looking. She's an expert at our divorces.

"Still an amicable divorce this time?"

I nod and take the pen she offers.

Ethan signs his name beside mine. The pen scratches against the paper, a sharp, decisive sound. He has done this thirty-seven times before. He' s good at it.

When it's my turn, the pen hovers over