Part 2My Husband and the Ghost of His Youth

Staring at the stark white divorce papers, the eighteen-year-old Declan’s eyes welled with tears.

“Did… did he hurt you?”

The boy in front of me couldn't possibly imagine.

Seven years ago, we were sharing a cramped studio apartment, looking at the city lights and dreaming about our future. I witnessed him earn his first serious capital.

Later, Declan exploded onto the real estate scene, eventually making it to the top of the Forbes list. In his acceptance speeches, he always thanked the “fierce and gentle April Hale from my youth.”

The social circle called us a fairytale couple.

When did that love curdle into this poison?

It was the night he got blackout drunk and called me from another woman’s bed. I listened, self-destructively, to the sickening sounds all night.

I found the courage to ask him, my eyes swollen and raw after three days of him being gone:

“You promised you’d never change…”

Declan, reeking of cheap perfume, gently embraced me. “I haven’t broken my promise. I still love you.”

He paused, then added, “But Savannah, and Tiffany, and Lexi—they’re all waiting for me too. They’re crying just as hard as you.”

I naively tried to fight them off, thinking if I just chased away these women, the marriage would be safe.

I was delusional.

Those women were just the tip of the iceberg. Declan grew steadily worse, sleeping with my college friends, my work colleagues, and even close acquaintances.

Before I could confront him about the extent of his betrayal, Declan delivered a chilling warning, his voice disturbingly calm:

“If you keep digging, you’ll only make this marriage uglier. Don’t humiliate yourself further.”

Then came the clincher. “Your mother’s private medical care is a sensitive subject.”

It was an undisguised threat.

That was the first time I realized with utter terror that the twenty-five-year-old Declan was entirely disconnected from the boy he used to be.

The young Declan wiped the tear from my cheek and, with a trembling hand, signed the divorce papers. He wept, apologizing for the monster he would become seven years later.

I blew out the candles on the cake he had brought, and felt a profound, exhausted sense of release.

I should have done this a long time ago.

On every massive digital billboard in the city, the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY Sally ADLER were scrolling. Paparazzi had captured Declan and Sally kissing in the panoramic window of a waterfront penthouse, then taking her to an exclusive, high-roller auction where a multi-million-dollar drone light show exploded over the city skyline.

I looked at the putrid, rotting rat on my floor and offered a dry, self-deprecating smile.

The wives in my circle would soon be mocking me.

“Can’t even hold onto her own husband. Such a defeat.”

“Sally must be his ninety-ninth conquest, right? April is still the undisputed champion of the Cuckold Club.”

“Well, her uterus is useless. No babies, no leverage.”

...

Every word on the screen felt like a fresh sting.

When I had the car accident and lost my ability to have children, I had managed to frantically dial Declan’s video phone.

The first thing I saw was Declan, draped around my closest friend, impatiently snapping, “Stop checking up on me! All it does is make me sick to look at you!”

He hung up, and I lost my chance at a family.

He had once picked out the names “Milo” and “Stella” for our future children.

I only learned from Sally’s Instagram that those were the names he’d given her two Pomeranians.

Declan had been hinting at the end for a long time.

That evening, I was packing my suitcase when the door violently crashed inward.

Declan stood there, his face thunderous, his eyes bloodshot with rage.

“April Hale! You drug Sally and then try to run? You have a death wish!”