Too Late To Love Your Dying Ex Husband

Ten years after the shelter I was responsible for collapsed, the Brigadier Generals wife personally sent me to a court martial.
I served my decade, then retired from the service, changed my name, and went to ground on the edge of nowhere, a poor line cook and server in a dusty diner.
I saw Sloane Hastings again in a documentary interview ten years later.
The reporter shoved a microphone in my face, barely giving me time to register the lights. Mr. Reese, General Hastings searched for you for a decade. Everyone is waiting for the two of you to mend things!
Just as the woman finished, Sloane walked in.
Her uniform was impeccably tailored, crisp, and starched. She commanded attention the second she entered the room.
A decade had passed, but she was still sharp, still stunning, though the brash confidence of her youth had been tempered by a quiet, formidable authority. She was a Brigadier General nowa star on her shoulder.
She looked at me for a long time, and I could sense a thousand unspoken things hanging between us.
But in the end, it was just a gentle greeting.
Rhys. Its been a long time.
Yeah. A long time, I answered flatly, my face betraying none of the seismic shifts happening inside me.
I thought of the massive casualty count from the shelter collapse, the disaster that had destroyed my life. I thought of how Sloane was the first to hand the investigative team proof of my alleged bribery.
The moment the lie was exposed, my life was incinerated. My parents disowned me on the spot, and the victims families wanted nothing less than my death sentence in court.
But no one knew that the one who enabled her little darling, Garrett Wells, to alter the blueprints, cut corners, and then fabricated the evidence to send me to prison, was the very same devoted Brigadier General standing here.
1
Ash, why didnt you tell me you were released?
How have you been all these years?
I didnt answer. I just tugged the sleeve of my oversized cotton jacket further down, trying to cover the dense cluster of needle marks on my forearm.
Sloane was about to say more when the cooks rough shout cut across the room: Rhys! You daydreaming? Dishes up!
I grunted an acknowledgment, ducked past Sloanes intense gaze, and turned away.
In my peripheral vision, she started to lift her hand, but ultimately didnt call out to stop me.
The order was hers.
Spicy Kung Pao Chicken, a plate of chili-seared beef, and a small flask of that rocket fuel whiskey unique to the border town.
I frowned.
She always hated spicy food. But I, always, had to have the heat.
Too bad the stomach cancer meant I hadnt dared to touch spice in months.
I set the plates in front of her. My voice was monotone. Your meal is complete.
I turned to leave, but her grip locked around my wrist.
Ash, these are all your favorites. Sit down stay with me for a minute. Please?
I froze. I remembered the night before she submitted the evidence. Shed coaxed me to eat and sleep just like this. I woke up to a ten-year nightmare.
Just a few words, she pleaded.
I took a deep breath and sat down opposite her.
She poured a shot of the whiskey and slid it to me.
The day you were released, I planned to be there. But everyone told me you were dead.
I let out a soft laugh. I didnt die, General. Sorry to make you worry.
Sloane snapped her head up. Her eyes were dark, fathomless. Ash, what happened back then I owe you an apology.
Your fathers sixtieth birthday is in three days. He he still thinks about you. Come back with me. I promise Ill make things right.
Make things right. Ten years ago, to cover up her affair with Garrett Wells and to help him avoid prosecution, she hadnt hesitated to fabricate evidence of bribery and send me to the military prison. And my parents, without a second thought, immediately disowned me.
Her words triggered a flash of agonizing memory, and the familiar, gnawing cramp seized my stomach.
I couldnt help but stand up.
An apology? An apology for what?
For your dirty business with Garrett? Or for how you fabricated evidence, and personally sent me to a cage for ten years?
My voice had risen. Too loud.
Instantly, the curious, probing stares of the surrounding patrons shifted to us.
I didn't look at her again. I turned, lifting the thick, greasy cotton curtain of the kitchen door, leaving her completely behind.
I thought I would never have to see Sloane Hastings again.
After all, how much genuine remorse could a person feel after sending their spouse straight to hell?
But early the next morning, as I started my shift, she was waiting at the front door.
She rushed forward when she saw me, blocking my way.
Ash, you were the youngest engineering expert in the entire corps. Your talent shouldnt be buried here.
I gave a cold laugh. But wasnt my life destroyed by you ten years ago? Doesn't it disgust you to say that now?
Sloanes throat bobbed. A fleeting, painful stiffness crossed her face.
She started to explain, but I pushed past her and walked inside.
She didn't leave. She ordered a small plate of food and a pot of tea, and sat there, occupying a booth for the entire day.
I ignored her, busy with my usual routine.
Just before the end of my shift, my stomach suddenly seized up.
I sucked in a sharp breath. My body staggered backward uncontrollably, my elbow catching a glass of a customers red wine.
It splashed all over the woman.
She leaped up, furious. Before I could even apologize, her palm smacked hard across my face.
Do you know what brand this jacket is, you idiot? You couldn't pay for it if you bussed tables here for a goddamn year!
She wasnt finished. She followed the slap with a kick straight to my stomach.
I curled up on the floor, the blinding pain making my vision blacken.
Then, she grabbed the bottle of wine from the table and poured it over my head.
I couldn't hold it in anymore. A searing cough, and I vomited a mouthful of blood.
The scarlet liquid mingled with the red wine, staining my shirt and the floor beneath me.
The woman still wasnt satisfied. She raised her foot to kick again, but a powerful force shoved her back.
Sloane stood over me, her uniform crisp, her eyes blazing red with a chilling intensity. Try to touch him one more time.
The woman was clearly intimidated by the Generals fury. She muttered a few curses and quickly slunk out of the diner.
Sloane spun around and crouched down, her voice trembling. Ash, the blood
I wiped my face. My fingertips were red and sticky.
Just wine, I lied.
I pushed away her attempt to help me up and staggered toward the back exit.
I quit the job.
The work was only to cover chemotherapy and medication. Since I wasnt going to survive much longer, there was no point in continuing.
Besides, my biggest wish now was to be as far away from Sloane and the Sinclairs as possible.
Clutching my meager wages, I went to the military hospital to pick up my test results and get some painkillers.
I had just gotten the report when I rounded a corner in the hallway and ran straight into a familiar figure.
My adopted brother, Garrett Wells.
And right next to him were Sloane Hastings and my parents.
Garrett saw me first. The bag of prescriptions he was holding clattered onto the floor.
He stared, eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost. Rhys? Youre not dead?
I looked at the bag on the floor. The words Pathology Lab and Garrett Wells were stark and sharp.
I looked at his meticulously styled hair, his expensive clothes, and Sloane's intimate proximity. What more did I need to understand?
Even after ten years, seeing it with my own eyes, my heart still felt like it had been violently pierced by an ice pick.
I managed a slight smile. Tough to kill. Sorry I didnt quite get there.
A flash of something dark and insidious crossed Garretts face before he turned on the waterworks, looking near tears. Brother, I know you hate that I married Sloane.
But you were divorced, and you made a mistake she couldn't wait for you forever, could she?
Sloanes brow was deeply furrowed. She spoke with a strained calmness. Dad and Mom are here. Ash, just swallow your pride. Its Dads birthday tomorrow. Theyll forgive you.
I laughed bitterly. You know the truth of a decade ago, all of you. Why should I apologize?
Thats when my parents finally noticed me.
My father, Mr. Sinclair, looked much older, though his spine was still ramrod straight. My mothers eyes, however, held only suspicion and scrutiny.
Why are you so thin? Mother frowned, her voice sharp. Did you get involved with something you shouldnt have?
You came out of prison and didnt return to the base. That only means youre guilty!
I paused, and then laughed until tears streamed down my face.
Ten years. They didnt ask how I was doing, or how my health was.
Their first words were to accuse me of drug use.
Fathers brow tightened at Mothers words. Your mothers right! Youre alarmingly thin!
He lunged and grabbed my arm. Come on! To the lab! Youre taking a drug test right now!
His voice was loud, instantly drawing a crowd.
In the struggle, he shoved me. I stumbled and fell to the ground, my forehead slamming against the corner of a chair. Blood immediately welled up.
The searing stomach pain returned. Cold sweat instantly soaked my clothes.
Sloane stepped forward, her voice complicated, a mix of concern and judgment. Ash, I didnt notice yesterday, but you really Listen to your parents. Go get the urine test.
The least we can do is take you to rehab. Its not too late to turn your life around.
Garrett, ever the concerned brother, weakly added, Brother, I know youre bitter, but dont make things worse!
The same condescending tone. As if I were truly the criminal.
I swatted away my fathers hand, unsteady as I stood. Fine. Ill go.
I limped into the urinalysis room.
The result, of course, was clean.
My parents looked embarrassed but offered no apology.
They merely glanced at me and said stiffly, Forget it. Your fathers sixtieth birthday dinner is tomorrow. Make sure you attend.
I stepped back, putting distance between us, and raised my hand in a crisp, perfect military salute.
Report, Commander. When you disowned me and published it in the papers ten years ago, I ceased to be a Sinclair.
I wont be attending your sixtieth. Happy Birthday, sir.
I turned and walked away from the hospital, ignoring their curses and attempts to call me back.
On the morning of Fathers sixtieth, I threw up blood again.
The pain was constant now. The spasms of agony made it almost impossible to stand.
I knew my condition was worsening rapidly. Every day was torture.
Perhaps I wouldnt last another month.
Sloane knocked on my door as I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth.
General Hastings, I leaned on the door frame, my voice hoarse. Youre married. As a wife, coming to see your ex-husband so often is inappropriate.
Her eyes darkened. Rhys, I know you hate me. We can talk about us later.
But today is your fathers birthday. You have to be there. Lets talk this out, as a family.
I didnt want to go, but I was so weak that she half-forced me into her car.
Once inside, Sloane frowned, continuously looking me over.
Ash, why are you so thin?
I rubbed the needle marks on my arm and gave a hollow laugh. Stage IV stomach cancer. Would you believe me?
Sloane froze, then smiled weakly. Dont joke. Youre just exhausted.
Yeah, I turned my head to look out the window. Just joking.
The birthday banquet was held at the Commands reception hall.
We arrived as the party was already underway.
I retreated to a corner, a transparent ghost.
My parents, too, maintained their distance, never introducing me to anyone.
Garrett, however, acted as the proud Sinclair son, arm-in-arm with Sloane, greeting guests.
I was redundant, from start to finish.
As the banquet neared its end, a swarm of reporters suddenly rushed in, surrounding Garrett.
Mr. Wells! Is it true that General Hastings was once your brother-in-law?
When did you and the General start dating? Was there any intimacy while Rhys Sinclairs marriage was still active?
Was Mr. Sinclairs imprisonment related to an emotional dispute?
The flashbulbs were blinding.
Garretts face was chalk-white. He suddenly sank to his knees in front of me, crying hysterically. Brother! I beg you to forgive me! Sloane and I only got together after your divorce!
Please don't slander me in front of the press!
Mother immediately charged forward, slapping me hard across the face. You demon! Do you hate your brother that much?!
Sloane helped Garrett up, her eyes on me filled with pure disgust. Rhys, you refused my help time and again, only to attack Garrett like this? You absolutely sicken me!
I was stunned. I rushed to explain.
This wasnt me. I swear I didnt know anything about this.
Father was trembling with rage. Bastard! Still lying!
The last urine test came up clean, and I thought youd changed, but youre worse than evertrying to destroy your brother!
He roared. Aide! Bring the rod!
The heavy, dark ceremonial cane was brought forward.
Father raised his hand and brought it down hard.
CRACK!
My jacket ripped. Skin tore open.
Blood instantly seeped through the fabric.
My throat clenched. I coughed up blood, but I grabbed the window ledge, refusing to fall.
A flicker of distress crossed Sloanes eyes. She tried to calm the situation. Ash, just apologize. Swallow your pride. Garrett is your brother, hell forgive you.
Apologize? I lifted my head, my mouth tasting of copper. My gaze swept over every single one of them. I didnt do it. Why should I apologize?
Under the stunned gaze of everyone present, and the frantic clicking of cameras, I violently tore open my broken jacket, standing before them in nothing but a tattered undershirt.
A dead silence descended upon the hall.
My emaciated, skeletal torso was a canvas of fresh and old scars: whip marks, cigarette burns, dark bruises crisscrossing everywhere.
On my arms, in addition to the chemotherapy ports, were the deep, dark indentations of being long-term bound.
I pointed to the deepest scar on my chest and looked at Sloane. This. This is from when I refused to take the fall for Garrett. You had people torture me until I broke and confessed to falsifying the data.
I turned to my ashen-faced parents. You asked why Im so thin?
I laughed, the sound hollow and full of release. Ten years of wrongful imprisonment, and long-term abuse. I have stomach cancer. Stage four. I dont have many days left.
How could a diner waiter possibly hire military journalists?
The heavy cane clattered onto the floor.
I took a step back, my spine pressed against the cold glass of the window.
Listen to me, my voice echoed clearly in the auditorium. It wasnt cancer that killed Rhys Sinclair.
It was my own parents, and my own wife.
Without a moments hesitation, I turned and leaped from the window

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