At 2 a.m., I saw a new update on Vanessa’s Facebook feed:
Visible only to you: Love means letting go.
The photo attached was my headshot from our marriage certificate, edited in black and white like an obituary.
My chest tightened.
I called again. Only the cold automated busy tone answered.
That was when I gave up completely.
I deleted her from every contact list, slept until morning, and drove to a law firm.
I hired an attorney to handle the divorce on my behalf.
That afternoon, after dismissing my entire research team, I returned home to find Vanessa waiting.
“You want to split the debts fifty-fifty? Are you insane?”
At her feet lay the divorce agreement my lawyer had sent, along with every bottle of my stomach meds.
It was almost time for my regular dose.
I drew a long breath.
“Isn’t it fair to split the debts we racked up during marriage?”
Her eyes gleamed with disdain as she tore away her mask:
“Ethan Cole, you’re shameless! Not only do you want me to share the debt, you even put that worthless drug of yours in the contract! Who are you trying to disgust?
You think you can weasel out? Fine, I’ll sit here today and see how long you last!”
She crushed the pill bottles under her heel.
I grabbed my phone to order new meds, but every pharmacy app showed them out of stock.
A familiar ache stirred in my gut. Panic flared.
I tried the doorknob—locked tight.
As the pain sharpened, my voice trembled:
“What did you do?”
Vanessa just sneered.
“I didn’t want to punish you. But you asked for it.
Didn’t you want your meds? Go on, pick them off the floor.”
She smirked at me.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Ten minutes later, I was doubled over in spasms, unable to stand.
She nudged a crushed bottle toward me, her tone cruelly tempting:
“Your stomach’s killing you, right? Without pills, you’ll die from the pain. Stop resisting—get on your knees and pick them up.”
The agony blurred my senses.
Even her words, treating me like a dog, didn’t spark my anger anymore.
Eventually, I collapsed to the floor.
My hand fumbled for a bottle. I twisted it open, desperate, swallowing the pills.
The moment they slid down my throat, my dignity, my self-image—
And the last shred of hope I held for Vanessa—
All burned away in her triumphant laughter.
When the pain dulled, I was alone again.
That night, an unknown number sent me a string of photos—
All of me, kneeling on the floor, scrambling for pills like a wretch.
I dialed back.
“I’ll have my lawyer resend the divorce papers. You can fill in however the debts get split.”
A familiar female voice chuckled:
“So scared I’ll leak these pictures online? Pathetic. I knew I had to crush you to make you obey.
Here’s how it’s going to be: all debts on you, the house and car to me, plus an IOU note for eight hundred thousand.
If the bank ever comes after me, I’ll take that note straight to your parents.”
Her merciless tone washed over me.
I only answered with a flat “Fine” and hung up.
She would never know—
That divorce agreement she despised once contained a clause sharing the new drug’s results with her.
My last act of softness, for the sake of our years together.
