The Marriage I Fought to End

In my last life, my best friend Ivy and I were a team. We married into the Harrison dynasty together, and we walked away from it together.

The problem was, once we walked, we were broke. Utterly, hopelessly broke.

We had no money, no skills, and no idea how to survive in the real world. Our grand finale? Asphyxiation from a faulty gas stove in a slum apartment.

Meanwhile, our ex-husbands thrived. One of them married his childhood sweetheart, and the other went on to win a Grand Slam.

So when I woke up back here, lying on a massage table in the mansion’s private spa, I just stared at her, my heart pounding in my throat.

Ivy’s eyes met mine. “I’m not doing it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Are you?”

I thought of the divorce papers I’d once been so desperate to sign, and a wave of nausea washed over me.

“Divorce?” I said, the word tasting like ash. “Not a chance in hell.”

You have to stare death in the face to appreciate life. You have to taste real poverty to understand: the life of a pampered trophy wife isn’t a prison. It’s a goddamn cakewalk.

1

Who can understand the whiplash? One second, you’re in a slum apartment, feeling the strength drain from your limbs as the gas leak claims you, your last conscious thought a blur of regret. The next, you’re blinking awake in an 8,000-square-foot mansion, the scent of lavender oil in the air, the bliss of a deep-tissue massage soothing muscles you’d forgotten you had.

Ivy and I can. We understand it all too well.

We stared at each other from our respective massage tables in the spa room, tears welling in our eyes. A soft knock echoed on the door before it opened.

It was my husband, Cole.

"Ryan and I are waiting in the living room," his voice was a low rumble, devoid of warmth. "I have a meeting later, and he needs to catch a flight."

Shit. I’d almost forgotten.

In the timeline we’d just escaped, today was the day. After months of demanding a divorce, of navigating schedules and stonewalling assistants, today was D-Day. Ryan was a world-class tennis player, Cole was a CEO. It had taken three months just to get them in the same room.

We scrambled into our clothes, minds racing.

“Okay, plan B,” Ivy whispered, her voice tight. “We apologize, we beg, we grovel. We’re not too proud to bend, right?”

“Bend?” I hissed back, pulling a silk blouse over my head. “I’ll break if I have to. We are not getting divorced.”

Downstairs, Ryan sat on the cream-colored sofa, flipping through a coffee table book, his silence a heavy blanket. Cole stood with his back to us, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, his posture radiating a chilling coldness.

I nudged Ivy, a desperate plea in my eyes for her to go first.

“So…” she started, her voice cracking. “You’re back.”

Ryan snapped the book shut with a sound like a gunshot. His gaze flicked to her, sharp and dismissive. “Memory failing you? Weren’t you the one who told my agent you hoped I’d get knocked out in the first round so you could get this over with?”

Ivy’s mouth snapped shut. She shot me a helpless look.

My own voice trembled as I spoke. “Cole, maybe we could… not do this? The divorce?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound scraping against my raw nerves. He didn’t even turn around. “And what about the 6’2” college athlete you’ve been keeping on the side? What happens to his promotion?”

Right. I shut up too.

In our frantic bid for freedom, we had said the cruelest things imaginable, aiming for the softest parts of these two men, just to get them to let us go. And it had worked. We’d walked away with our pride intact, refusing a single penny of their money.

We were trophy wives, insulated by their dynasty. We knew nothing of poverty, nothing of the real world. We thought we were choosing freedom. We never imagined that freedom was just another word for broke.

Job rejections. A bad investment that took the last of our savings. Eating ramen until we were sick of the sight of it. The two of us, who had once debated the merits of Michelin-starred restaurants, trying to cook for ourselves in a tiny, roach-infested kitchen. And in the end, a forgotten gas knob. A final, pathetic exit.

The memory sent a shiver down my spine.

Ivy was the first to move. She scurried over to Ryan’s side, her smile painfully bright. “Hey, I only said that because I missed you. I wanted you to come home to me.”

I took my cue, rushing to Cole’s side and wrapping my arm around his. It was like hugging a marble statue. “He was just a lie, honey. Who needs a boy with abs when I have you?”

It was the truth, at least that part. Whatever else our marriage had become, the nights were still… harmonious. We fought like enemies in the light of day, but in the dark, we…

Cole flinched, then glanced down at my hand on his bicep as if it were a foreign object. That’s when I saw the deep, weary lines around his eyes. He looked exhausted.

He peeled my fingers off his arm. “Leah, do you want stock options or a lump sum? Just name your price. I don’t have time for these games.”

2

We’d pushed too hard. Now, our sudden reversal just looked like a pathetic, last-ditch negotiation for a bigger settlement.

I froze, words failing me as I tried to form a denial. But it was too late. Cole’s phone was already pressed to his ear as he walked away.

Ryan was just as skeptical. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “My schedule is tight. Just tell my lawyer what you want. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”

A black car was idling in the driveway. His tournament wasn’t even over; he’d flown halfway across the world just for this.

Ivy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don’t want to get divorced,” she whispered.

Ryan’s lips tightened into a thin line. He looked at her for a long moment, then said, “You’d better mean that,” before turning and walking out the door.

Watching them leave, a wave of relief washed over me, quickly followed by a cold tide of fear.

“What are we going to do?” I murmured, my voice hollow. “We have zero credibility with them.”

I’ve followed Ivy’s lead my whole life. She was always the bold one, the decision-maker, and I was her loyal shadow. In moments like this, her thoughts were my anchor.

She took a deep breath, her chin lifting with a familiar resolve. “The marriages might be on life support for now,” she said, her gaze firm. “We need a backup plan. A real one.”

We were never going back. Never going back to that cramped apartment, to working minimum-wage jobs, to eating expired sushi from convenience stores. We would never again trade our dignity for survival. Not when we remembered what it felt like to live like this.

Ivy turned to me, her expression all business. “Your husband… what’s his name again… how much does he give you for your allowance?”

“Thirty thousand? Fifty? I lose track.”

“A month? Perfect! You must have a couple million saved by now, right?”

I winced. “It all sort of… became shoes. And bags.”

Ivy stared at me, her look a perfect blend of horror and pity. “You spendthrift! You didn’t save a single dime?”

I glared back. “The couture jacket you’re wearing right now? That was five grand of that allowance money.”

Cole was generous, but I had nothing but time on my hands. Shopping was my only hobby.

Ivy sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Okay, well, I’m no better. Every spare cent I had went to paying off my parents’ business debts.”

Ivy’s family had been well-off once, but their business had been failing for years, and she was the only thing keeping it afloat. After our divorce in the other life, they’d declared bankruptcy.

We collapsed onto the sofa, a symphony of synchronized sighs.

Finally, Ivy slapped her thigh. “Okay, new plan. It’s not enough to just have their money. We’d just burn through a settlement anyway. We need to learn how to make our own. We stay married, we play nice, and we use this time to build real skills. Then, when we can stand on our own two feet, we can decide if we still want to leave.”

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