Ninety-Nine Times, Then No More

This was the ninety-ninth time I caught my husband, Chase Vargas, with another woman in our five-year marriage. I stood in the hotel doorway, numb, tired of the cheap perfume and his cold, familiar eyes.

But this time, his mistress, a blonde woman, hissed, "He told me all about you. The pathetic wife he's stuck with because of some business deal. He said he can't stand the sight of you."

Her words, meant to hurt, were things I already knew, things Chase had made sure I understood. Still, hearing them from a stranger felt like a new humiliation. She lunged, scratching my face, drawing blood. The sting was a surprising jolt in my numb world. I wrote her a check, a routine part of this pathetic scene.

Then my phone rang. It was Chase, calling from across the room. "What are you doing? Are you making a scene? Clean it up and get out. You're embarrassing." He thought I had orchestrated this, that I was the embarrassing one. The betrayal was casual, complete.

"I'm tired, Chase," I said, the words finally coming from a place I thought had died. "I want a divorce." He laughed, a cruel sound. "A divorce? Elena, don't be ridiculous. You love me too much to ever leave me." I hung up.

He then handed me a signed divorce agreement, telling me his true love, June, my adopted sister, was back. He wanted me to play the dutiful wife for her welcome-home concert. My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a final, crushing blow. He wasn't divorcing me because I wanted it. He was divorcing me for her.

I signed the papers. The ninety-ninth time was the last time he would do this to me.

Chapter 1

This was the ninety-ninth time.

The ninety-ninth time in our five-year marriage that I had caught my husband, Chase Vargas, with another woman. I stood in the doorway of the hotel room, my hand still on the knob. The air was thick with the smell of cheap perfume and expensive champagne.

A woman with blonde hair scrambled to cover herself with a sheet. Chase didn't bother. He sat on the edge of the bed, perfectly calm, and looked at me with those cold, familiar eyes. There was no apology, no guilt. Just annoyance.

I was just tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion that had replaced all the other feelings long ago. The pain, the hope, the love-it had all been ground down to this. Numbness.

"Get out," the blonde woman hissed, pulling the sheet tighter around her chest.

I looked at her, then back at Chase. He didn't say a word. He just watched, as if this were a show put on for his entertainment.

"He's my husband," I said. My voice was flat.

The woman laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Husband? Don't make me laugh. He told me all about you. The pathetic wife he's stuck with because of some business deal. He said he can't stand the sight of you."

Each word was meant to hurt, but they were things I already knew. Things Chase had made sure I understood from the very first day. Still, hearing them from a stranger's lips felt like a new kind of humiliation.

"You should have more respect for yourself," I told her, my voice still empty of emotion.

She suddenly lunged off the bed, her face twisted in rage. "You bitch!"

Her hand came up, nails first, aiming for my face. I didn't flinch. I just stood there. Her nails raked down my cheek, drawing blood. The sting was sharp, a surprising jolt in my numb world. It was almost a relief to feel something physical.

I reached into my purse, took out my checkbook, and wrote out a number. I tore it off and held it out to her. "Here. For your time. And for the scratch."

The woman stared at the check, then at me, her mouth hanging open. "What is this? You think you can buy me off?"

"Yes," I said simply. It wasn't about buying her off. It was about ending this pathetic scene. I had done this before. It was part of the routine.

"You rich people are all the same! You think money solves everything!" she shrieked, her voice filled with moral outrage. But her eyes kept darting back to the check.

My phone rang. It was Chase. I glanced at him, still sitting on the bed, now holding his phone to his ear. He was calling me from across the room.

I answered. "Hello?"

"What are you doing?" His voice was impatient, laced with contempt. "Are you making a scene? Clean it up and get out. You're embarrassing."

I felt a cold shock. He thought I had orchestrated this. That I had come here to cause a scene with his mistress. That I was the one who was embarrassing. The betrayal was so casual, so complete.

"I'm tired, Chase," I said, the words finally coming from a place deep inside me. A place I thought had died.

"Tired of what? Playing the victim?" he sneered.

"I want a divorce."

The line went silent for a second. Then he laughed. A low, cruel sound that made my skin crawl.

"A divorce? Elena, don't be ridiculous. You love me too much to ever leave me."

I hung up.

I looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in a long time. The man I had loved since I was a teenager. The brilliant, cold CEO of Vargas Industries. Our marriage was a merger, a business arrangement to join his tech empire with my family's real estate dynasty, Carrillo Corp. My father had arranged it, and I had agreed with a secret, hopeful heart.

I remembered seeing him for the first time, tall and impossibly handsome in a dark suit, his presence commanding the entire room. I had fallen for him instantly, a secret I kept locked away for years.

When the marriage was proposed, I thought it was a dream come true. A chance.

The dream shattered on our wedding night. He didn't come to our bed. I found him in his study, staring at a photograph. A picture of my adopted sister, June.

"This is for her," he had told me, his voice like ice. "Everything I'm about to do to you, to your family, is for her. You drove her away. Now you'll pay the price."

I didn't understand then. I didn't know the web of lies June had spun. I only knew pain. He would bring women into our home. He would cancel our plans for a "more important" dinner, and the next day I'd see photos of him with some starlet online. He systematically, methodically, broke me down.

For five years, I endured it. I told myself my love could change him. I told myself he would see the truth one day. Every time he hurt me, I would retreat to my bathroom and drag a silver letter opener across my arm, not deep enough to leave a permanent scar, but just enough to let the physical pain eclipse the emotional agony. A silent record of his cruelty.

I had set a limit for myself. One hundred acts of cruelty. One hundred times he could break my heart before I would let it go. This was the ninety-ninth.

He stood up from the bed, pulling on his shirt. He walked past the other woman as if she didn't exist and stopped in front of me. He looked down at the scratch on my cheek, his expression unreadable.

"She's back," he said, his voice low.

I knew who he meant. June. The popular indie musician, the charismatic victim. My sociopathic sister.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded document. He pushed it into my hand. "I've already signed it."

It was a divorce agreement.

He wanted the divorce. He had always planned to end it the moment his true love returned.

"Don't leave the city," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "June is having a welcome-home concert. There are rumors flying around, and I need you to be the dutiful wife for a little while longer. To shut them up."

My phone buzzed in my hand. A text message. It was from a number I didn't recognize, but I knew who it was from.

Sister, I'm back. Did you miss me? I hear Chase is finally getting rid of you. See you soon.

My heart, which I thought had turned to stone, felt a final, crushing blow. He wasn't divorcing me because I wanted it. He was divorcing me for her.

I looked down at the papers in my hand. Then I looked up at him, my eyes clear and dry.

I walked over to the hotel room's desk, picked up a pen, and signed my name.

Elena Carrillo. Soon to be formerly Mrs. Vargas.

The ninety-ninth time was the last time he would do this to me.

Chase watched me sign the papers, a flicker of surprise in his cold eyes. He probably expected me to cry, to beg. He always saw me as a pathetic creature who lived for his scraps of attention.

"So eager," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips. "Playing hard to get now, Elena? You think this will make me want you?"

He was so arrogant, so certain of my devotion. He couldn't imagine a world where I wasn't hopelessly in love with him.

His lawyer, a man named Mr. Hanson, cleared his throat nervously. "Chase, Ms. Carrillo's flight from London just landed. The car is waiting to take her to the hotel."

I saw the name on his tongue before he said it. June.

"Shut up," Chase snapped at the lawyer, his good mood vanishing. He shot a glance at me, as if worried I had heard.

I had. It didn't matter anymore.

I turned and walked out of the hotel room without another word. I didn't look back.

Back at the villa, the house we had shared for five years, I started to pack. I moved through the silent, opulent rooms like a ghost. This place had never been a home. It was a beautiful cage. I took only my personal belongings, leaving behind the jewelry, the clothes, the life he had bought for me. Everything fit into a single suitcase. I was ready to leave this city, this life, and never look back.

I was zipping up the suitcase when the bedroom door burst open. Chase stood there, his face a mask of thunder.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. He strode across the room, grabbed my arm, and hauled me to my feet. His grip was like steel.

"Let go of me, Chase," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

"You're not going anywhere," he growled, pulling me towards the door. "You're coming with me."

"Why? So you can parade me around like a trophy wife one last time?" I asked, struggling against his hold. "To protect your precious June?"

His grip tightened, his knuckles white. "You did this. You leaked those photos of me and June to the press, didn't you? To ruin her homecoming."

I stared at him, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

He dragged me into the living room and threw me onto the sofa. He turned on the massive television. A news channel was on, the screen filled with a chaotic scene at the airport. June, looking fragile and overwhelmed, was being swarmed by reporters.

"Ms. Carrillo! Is it true you and CEO Chase Vargas have been in a relationship for years?" a reporter shouted.

"Are you the reason for his impending divorce from his wife, Elena Carrillo?" another yelled.

Then, a reporter held up a photo. It was a picture of Chase and June, taken years ago. They looked happy, intimate. My heart gave a painful thud, a reflex I hated.

"You've always hated her," Chase snarled, his voice dripping with venom. "You were jealous of her, even as kids. You couldn't stand that she was the one I loved."

He was right about one thing. I did hate her. But not for the reasons he thought. I remembered our childhood all too clearly. June, the orphan my parents had adopted out of the goodness of their hearts. June, who could cry on command and make everyone believe she was the victim.

I remembered the time she "accidentally" broke our mother's favorite vase and then looked at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, telling our parents I had pushed her. They had believed her, of course. June was so charming, so fragile. I was just the quiet, serious daughter. They always took her side.

I had tried to love her. I really had. But it was impossible to love a snake you were forced to share a room with.

"I didn't do this, Chase," I said, my voice weary. I was done defending myself to him. He would never believe me.

He scoffed. "Your silence is an admission of guilt." He saw my packed suitcase by the stairs. "Running away after you've done the deed? How predictable."

He walked over to the closet and pulled out a dress-one he had bought me. It was elegant and demure. The perfect costume for the supportive, loving wife.

"Put this on," he ordered, throwing it at me. "We're going to the press conference for June's new album. You're going to stand by my side and smile. You're going to tell everyone how much you love your sister and how happy you are that she's back."

I looked at the dress, then at him. The humiliation was a bitter taste in my mouth. But I knew I had no choice. Not yet.

I stood up and took the dress. I walked past him, my shoulder brushing his. For a brief moment, I felt him stiffen.

In the car, I sat as far away from him as possible, staring out the window. He drove in a tense silence. When we arrived, he turned to me.

"Remember your role, Elena," he warned.

I didn't answer. I got out of the car. As he came around to my side, he took my hand. I flinched, but forced myself not to pull away. He threaded his fingers through mine.

"Now," he said, his voice softer, almost a performance. "Let's go show them what a happy couple looks like."

He led me into the throng of reporters. The camera flashes were blinding. I put a small, polite smile on my face and walked beside him. I felt like an actress in a terrible play.

I saw June on the stage, her eyes finding ours. She was flanked by her managers, looking every bit the wronged starlet. When she saw my hand in Chase's, her angelic smile faltered for just a second. A flash of pure, unadulterated jealousy crossed her face before she replaced it with a look of brave vulnerability.

And I knew, without a doubt, that this whole circus was her creation.

June's PR team had been working overtime. By the time Chase and I arrived, the narrative was set: June Carrillo, the beloved indie darling, was the victim of a vicious smear campaign, likely orchestrated by a jealous party.

Our appearance together was a masterstroke. Chase Vargas, the powerful CEO, standing by his wife, Elena, who was also June's adoptive sister. It was the perfect, unspoken rebuttal to the rumors. It screamed solidarity.

June saw us, and her performance kicked into high gear. She rushed toward us, her face a mask of tear-streaked relief.

"Elena! Chase! I'm so glad you're here!" she cried, throwing her arms around me. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her nails digging into my arm. "I knew you wouldn't believe those horrible lies."

I stood rigidly in her embrace, my smile frozen on my face. I was a puppet, and she and Chase were the puppet masters. I played my part, murmuring something about sisterly love and the cruelty of the media.

The crowd surged forward, a chaotic mix of fans and reporters. People were pushing, shouting. A security line buckled. I saw a heavy stage light precariously balanced on a stand start to wobble. It was directly above us.

I tried to step back, to pull away from June, but she held me fast. "Stay close, sister," she whispered, her voice a venomous hiss in my ear. "It's dangerous."

She knew. She saw the light, too. And she wasn't letting me go.

In the next moment, everything happened at once. The light stand toppled. June didn't try to pull me out of the way. Instead, she shoved me forward, directly into its path, and then threw herself to the side with a theatrical scream.

It was a perfect plan. Except, as the stand fell, the heavy light fixture broke loose and swung sideways. It missed me completely and crashed into June's shoulder as she scrambled away. She screamed again, this time in genuine, if minor, pain.

Chase, who had been watching the whole thing unfold, didn't hesitate. He lunged into the crowd, his eyes only for June. He scooped her up in his arms, his face frantic with worry. "June! Are you okay? Talk to me!"

He didn't even glance at me.

I had been shoved so hard that I stumbled backward and fell. I landed hard, my face hitting the cold concrete floor. The impact knocked the wind out of me, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't make a sound.

As I lay there, dazed, I felt a searing, blinding pain in my side. I looked down. A piece of rebar from the broken security barrier, sharp and rusted, had been jutting up from the floor. My fall had driven it deep into my abdomen.

The crowd, like a tide, followed Chase and June as he carried her toward the exit. People were screaming, running. Someone stepped on my hand. Another kicked my leg. I was invisible, a piece of trash left behind in the chaos.

Warm, sticky blood started to soak through my dress. The pain was immense, a fire spreading through my entire body. I tried to call out his name.

"Chase..."

It was a whisper, lost in the noise.

He was already at the door, pushing his way through. He didn't turn around. He didn't look back. He just disappeared, with her in his arms.

I lay there, watching him go. The last shred of hope in my heart withered and died.

This was it. The final act.

I had been keeping a silent count in my head for five years. Every deliberate cruelty, every casual betrayal. The ninety-nine times he had broken my heart. And now, this. Leaving me to die on a cold, dirty floor while he saved the woman who had tried to kill me.

This was number one hundred.

The number I had promised myself would be the end.

My vision started to blur. The sounds of the crowd faded into a dull roar. The last thing I saw before I passed out was a kind-faced security guard kneeling beside me, his phone to his ear, his voice urgent.

"We need an ambulance. Now. A woman is bleeding out."

Then, everything went black.

I spent hours in surgery. When I woke up, the first thing I heard was the hushed, indignant voices of two nurses.

"Can you believe it? The pop star, June Carrillo, gets a whole VIP suite for a bruised shoulder. They've had every specialist in the city look at her."

"Meanwhile, this one, Mrs. Vargas, almost died. The rebar missed her main artery by a millimeter. And her husband? Hasn't shown up once. We tried calling him, his assistant, everyone. No one answered."

The irony was so thick I could have choked on it.

Alone. I had a husband, a father, a sister. But in the end, I was completely alone.

The pain in my side was a dull, constant throb. But it was nothing compared to the emptiness inside me.

I closed my eyes and drifted back into the darkness.