The Thirty-Eighth Divorce's End

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.