No Longer A Victim, Now I Rise

The fluorescent hum of the DMV was the soundtrack to my boring life, until I tried to replace my lost driver's license.

"Your marital status. It says you're divorced," the clerk said, shattering my five-year marriage to Jackson Parks with a single, flat sentence.

My husband, Jackson, the man who swore he loved me, had secretly divorced me three years ago. Not only that, he had remarried the very next day to Candida Camacho, the woman who had tried to murder me on my wedding day and left me infertile. And they had a two-year-old son, Joey.

I stumbled home, my world a blur, only to find Jackson and Candida in our living room, arguing. "I hate having to pretend for that pathetic woman!" Candida shrieked. Jackson, my husband, pleaded, "I love you. I've always loved you."

The man I sacrificed everything for, who swore to destroy her, was now playing house with my attempted murderer, and I was the fool living in his house, sleeping in his bed, believing his lies.

The pain in my abdomen, a phantom ache from five years ago, flared to life, mirroring the gaping wound in my soul. I would not be his victim anymore.

"Hamilton," I said into the phone, my voice clear and steady. "I need your help. I need you to help me die."

Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights of the DMV hummed, a flat, endless sound that matched the boredom on every face in the room. I just needed a replacement for my driver's license. I' d lost my wallet last week, a simple, annoying inconvenience. Or so I thought.

I sat on the hard plastic chair, my number finally blinking on the screen above the counter. E47.

I walked up to the window. The woman behind the glass looked tired. She chewed her gum slowly, her eyes barely glancing at me.

"Good afternoon," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "I need a replacement license. Elena Medina."

She typed my name into her computer, the clicking of her long nails the only sound for a moment. Her chewing paused. She squinted at the screen.

"Elena Medina," she repeated. She looked up at me, then back at the monitor. "There's a problem here."

"A problem?" I asked. "Is my photo outdated?"

"No," she said, her voice flat. "Your marital status. It says you're divorced."

The hum of the lights suddenly felt louder. The air in the room felt thick. I forced a small laugh.

"Oh, that must be a mistake," I said. "I'm married. My husband is Jackson Parks. We've been married for five years."

The woman sighed, a puff of air that smelled faintly of mint. She turned her monitor slightly towards me. "The system says you were divorced from Jackson Parks three years ago."

My smile froze. My blood ran cold. This wasn't just a mistake. It was impossible.

"That can't be right," I insisted, my voice shaking a little. "Please, check again. There must be a system error."

She typed again, more deliberately this time. She shook her head. "No error. The divorce was finalized on October 12th, three years ago. The records are clear."

My mind reeled. Three years ago. We were on vacation in Italy that month. Jackson had been so attentive, so loving. He' d bought me a diamond bracelet, telling me every day with me was a gift.

It didn't make sense.

The clerk looked at her screen again, her expression shifting from boredom to a flicker of pity.

"And," she added softly, "it says Mr. Parks remarried."

The floor felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. "Remarried? To who?"

"A Candida Camacho," the woman said, reading from the screen. "They were married the day after your divorce was finalized."

Candida Camacho. The name hit me like a physical blow. A wave of nausea washed over me.

The woman wasn't finished. She looked up at me, her eyes wide now. "And... they have a child. A son. Joey Camacho. He's two years old."

My vision tunneled. The sounds of the DMV faded into a dull roar. A son. He had a son with Candida Camacho.

Candida. The woman who had tried to kill me.

The memory, buried for five years, erupted in my mind. Our wedding day. The sun was shining. Jackson looked at me with so much love it made my heart ache. We were at the altar, about to say our vows.

Then, chaos.

Candida Camacho, her face twisted with hate, screaming my name. Her family had been a business rival Jackson had crushed, and she had sworn revenge. She lunged at Jackson with a knife.

I didn't think. I threw myself in front of him.

The pain was sharp, searing. It shot through my abdomen. I remember looking down, seeing the white of my wedding dress turn a sickening, brilliant red. I remember Jackson's scream, his face a mask of horror and rage.

The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Jackson roaring, "I'll make you pay for this, Candida! I swear on my life, I will destroy you!"

I woke up in a hospital bed. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. But the knife had done irreparable damage. I could never have children.

Jackson sat by my bed for weeks. He held my hand, his eyes filled with tears. He swore he would love me forever, that I was the only woman he would ever want. He said he would make up for my sacrifice, that our love was enough.

He kept his promise to destroy Candida. He bankrupted what was left of her family's company, chased her out of the city, and made sure she was a social pariah.

He had hated her. He had sworn to make her suffer.

So how?

How could he be married to her? How could they have a son?

I stumbled out of the DMV, the bright California sun feeling harsh and cold. The world was a blur of colors and noise, but inside, I was numb, frozen.

My life, my marriage, the love I had built my entire world on-it was all a lie. For five years, he had been living a double life. For three years, I had been his ex-wife, living in his house, sleeping in his bed, believing I was his beloved wife.

I thought back on the last few years. The business trips that got longer and more frequent. The nights he came home late, smelling of a perfume that wasn't mine, which he'd blame on a client. The times he' d get angry over nothing, telling me I was being too emotional, too needy, that I was imagining things.

Gaslighting. The word surfaced in my mind, ugly and sharp. He had been psychologically abusing me for years, and I had been too blind with love to see it.

I finally made it back to the house. Our house. The one he bought for me, he' d said. A testament to our love.

As I walked up the driveway, I heard voices from inside. An angry, familiar voice. Jackson's.

And a woman's. Candida's.

I stopped by the large window of the living room, my body hidden by the thick bushes I had planted myself.

Inside, Jackson was pacing, his face a storm of emotion. Candida stood by the fireplace, holding a small boy in her arms. Joey. Her son. Jackson's son.

"I can't take this anymore, Jackson!" Candida's voice was sharp with venom. "I hate you! I hate having to see you, having to pretend for that pathetic woman!"

Jackson stopped pacing. He ran a hand through his hair, looking desperate. "Candida, please. You know I only did it for you. I love you. I've always loved you."

My heart, which I thought couldn't break any further, shattered into a million tiny pieces.

"Love?" she sneered. "You destroyed my family! You call that love?"

"I had to," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "I was obsessed with you. I couldn't lose you. I would have done anything."

"What about her?" Candida spat, her eyes flashing with pure hatred. "What about your precious Elena?"

Jackson's face twisted in conflict. "I... I love her too."

"You can't have us both!"

He grabbed her arm, his grip tight. "I won't let you go. I love you more, Candida. You have to know that. I love you so much I secretly divorced Elena. I married you. I broke every law, risked my entire reputation, just to make you my wife."

"I am the mother of your son," he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Please, Candida. Just stay. I'll do anything."

The little boy in her arms started to cry. "Mommy, don't leave. I want Daddy to stay with us."

Jackson' s face softened as he looked at the boy. He reached out a trembling hand. "Joey, son, it's okay. Mommy's not going anywhere."

Candida's expression flickered. She looked from the boy to Jackson. She leaned in and kissed Jackson, a long, possessive kiss. The boy clapped his hands, a small, happy sound in the silent room.

I stood outside, my hand pressed against my mouth to stifle a sob. My body shook uncontrollably. The pain in my abdomen, a dull echo from five years ago, flared to life, a phantom ache that mirrored the gaping wound in my soul.

He loved me once. He had held me and promised me a lifetime. He knelt at my feet and thanked me for saving his life, for giving up my dream of being a mother for him.

And it was all a lie. A cruel, elaborate joke.

I was the fool who sacrificed everything for a man who was playing house with my attempted murderer.

The beautiful memories we shared turned to ash in my mind. Every loving word, every tender touch, was now tainted, poisoned by this revelation.

He hadn't changed. He was just a better liar.

A cold, hard resolve settled over me. The shaking stopped. The pain receded, replaced by an icy calm.

I would not be his victim anymore.

I wiped the tears from my face with the back of my hand. I took out my phone, my fingers steady as I scrolled through my contacts.

I found the name. Hamilton Nixon.

I pressed the call button. He answered on the first ring.

"Elena?" his voice was warm, concerned. "Is everything okay?"

My own voice came out clear and steady, devoid of any emotion.

"Hamilton," I said. "I need your help. I need you to help me die."

"I want to disappear," I said into the phone, my voice a dead monotone. "Completely. I want the world, and especially Jackson Parks, to believe I'm dead."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Hamilton's voice, when it came, was low and serious. "Elena, what happened?"

"He lied," I said. "Everything was a lie."

I didn't need to say more. Hamilton knew what Jackson meant to me. He also knew what Jackson was capable of.

"Tell me what you need," he said, no judgment in his tone, only steel.

"A plane crash," I said, the words tasting like poison. "As soon as possible. Can you arrange that?"

"Consider it done," he said. "I'll handle everything. Where will you go?"

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "Just... away from here."

"I have a place in Provence," he offered. "It's quiet. No one will find you. I'll send the details. Just get yourself to the private airfield in Van Nuys tomorrow night. A jet will be waiting."

"Thank you, Hamilton."

"Always, Elena."

I hung up, a fresh wave of pain washing over me. Making that call made it real. The life I knew was over. The man I loved was a monster who had systematically destroyed me while pretending to cherish me.

He had cheated on me. He had lied to me. He had married another woman while I still wore his ring.

He deserved to be cheated. He deserved to be lied to.

He wanted me gone? Fine. I would vanish from his world so completely it would be as if I never existed.

A soft knock on my door made me jump.

"Mrs. Parks?" It was Maria, our housekeeper. "Mr. Parks is home. He's asking for you."

I took a deep breath, schooling my features into a mask of calm. I opened the door.

Jackson was standing in the hallway. When he saw me, a flicker of panic crossed his face before it was replaced by his usual, charming smile. It was a performance I now saw with horrifying clarity.

"Elena, darling," he said, striding toward me and wrapping his arms around my waist. He tried to kiss me, but I turned my head slightly, and his lips brushed my cheek. "I was worried. You were out for so long."

His concern felt like acid on my skin. I could smell Candida's perfume on his shirt.

"I just had some errands to run," I said, my voice carefully neutral. I pulled away from his embrace.

My eyes fell on the woman and child standing behind him. Candida and Joey.

"Who are they?" I asked, my voice flat, as if I didn't know.

Jackson visibly relaxed, a small sigh of relief escaping his lips. He thought I didn't know. He thought he could keep lying.

"Oh, this is a wonderful surprise," he said, his voice full of fake enthusiasm. "Elena, remember how we talked about wanting a child? How much we wanted to fill this big house with laughter?"

He gestured to the boy. "This is Joey. He's an orphan. I thought... I thought we could adopt him. Give him a home. A family."

He was using my infertility, the very wound he and his secret wife had caused, as a tool for his deception. The cruelty of it was breathtaking.

"And this," he said, indicating Candida, "is Miss Camacho. She's a caretaker from the orphanage who has grown very attached to Joey. I've hired her to be his nanny, to help him adjust."

He put his hand on Joey's head. "Joey, say hello to your new mommy."

My heart felt like a block of ice. New mommy. The irony was a bitter pill.

The boy, Joey, looked at me with wide, innocent eyes. But there was something cold in them, something that didn't match his cherubic face.

"Hello... Mommy," he said, his voice small and hesitant.

Jackson beamed, a proud father. "Isn't he wonderful, Elena?"

Candida stood silently, her eyes downcast, playing the part of a humble nanny perfectly. But I could see the faint smirk playing on her lips. She was enjoying this. She was enjoying my humiliation.

"He's a lovely boy," I said, my voice hollow. I looked at Jackson, my gaze steady. "I'm a little tired. I think I'll go lie down."

Jackson's smile tightened. He saw something in my eyes, a coldness that wasn't there before.

"Are you feeling alright, darling?" he asked, his brow furrowed with fake concern. "You look pale."

"Just a headache," I lied. I turned and walked toward our bedroom, my back straight.

"Let me get you some soup," Jackson called after me, his voice dripping with the false tenderness that now made my stomach turn. "Maria makes the best chicken soup. It will make you feel better."

I didn't answer. I closed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, the facade of calm crumbling. I was shaking again, a deep, violent tremor that started in my soul.

Later, Joey brought the soup to my room, pushed by a smiling Jackson.

"Be a good boy and take care of your mommy," Jackson cooed, patting his head.

The boy carried the tray carefully. He set it on the nightstand, his small face serious. "I'll help you, Mommy."

For a moment, I felt a pang of something other than hatred. He was just a child, a pawn in his mother's sick game. I reached out to take the bowl from him.

As my fingers closed around the warm ceramic, he let go. Deliberately.

The bowl tipped, and scalding hot soup spilled all over my hand and wrist. I cried out, pulling my hand back. The skin was already turning an angry red.

Joey's eyes widened. He let out a piercing wail, clutching his own hand.

"Ow! My hand! You burned me!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face. "You did it on purpose! You hate me!"

Jackson and Candida burst into the room at the sound of the boy's screams. Their faces were masks of alarm.

Jackson immediately rushed to Joey's side, scooping him up into his arms. He didn't even glance at me.

"What's wrong, Joey? What happened?" he asked, his voice frantic.

"She burned me!" the boy sobbed, pointing a trembling, uninjured finger at me. "She did it on purpose! She hates me!"

Jackson's head snapped toward me. His eyes, moments ago filled with fake concern for me, were now blazing with cold fury.

"Elena, what is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. "He's just a child. How could you?"

"I didn't-" I started, but he cut me off.

"He's our son now," Jackson snarled. "I brought him here for you, to give you a family, and this is how you treat him? Because you can't have one of your own, you're going to hurt an innocent boy?"

The words were a slap in the face. He was using my pain, the sacrifice I made for him, as a weapon against me.

He turned his back on me, his attention focused solely on the crying child. "It's okay, Joey. Daddy's here. I'll get the doctor. We'll take care of you."

He carried the boy out of the room, Candida following close behind. Before she left, she shot me a look over her shoulder. It was a look of pure, triumphant hatred.

I was left alone in the room, the smell of chicken soup thick in the air. The broken bowl lay on the floor, a symbol of my shattered life. My hand throbbed with a searing pain.

Jackson had never even looked at my burn.

I laughed, a bitter, broken sound that echoed in the empty room. What a fool I had been.

I went into the bathroom and ran cold water over my hand. The skin was blistering. I found the first-aid kit and clumsily wrapped the burn, the pain a sharp, physical reminder of the deeper, invisible wounds he had inflicted.

I remembered a time, years ago, when I had cut my finger while cooking. It was a tiny cut, barely bleeding. Jackson had rushed me to the emergency room, his face pale with worry. He had held my hand the entire time, whispering that he couldn't bear to see me in any pain.

That man was gone. Or maybe he had never existed at all.

Love, I realized with a chilling certainty, was not eternal. It could die. It could be killed.

The door opened, and Jackson walked in. He saw my bandaged hand and had the decency to look guilty.

"Elena, I..." he began. "I'm sorry for what I said. I was just worried about Joey."

He came closer, his voice softening. "He's just a little boy. He didn't mean to cause trouble. Can you find it in your heart to forgive him?"

I stared at him, my heart a frozen lump in my chest. He was asking me to forgive the child who had deliberately hurt me, while he had accused me of malice.

I said nothing.

He sighed, a sound of weary patience. "Look, Joey is very shaken. I'm going to sleep in his room tonight, to make sure he's okay."

It was another excuse to be with her. I knew it. But I no longer cared.

"Fine," I said, my voice flat.

He seemed surprised by my easy agreement. He had expected a fight, tears, accusations. He didn't know that the woman who would have done those things was already dead.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead, a brief, cool touch. "Get some rest."

Then he was gone.

I lay in our massive, empty bed, staring into the darkness. I was an outsider in my own home, a stranger in my own life.

Later, I heard it.

The sound came from the room next door, the one Jackson was supposedly sharing with the child. It was a soft sound at first, a muffled cry.

Then, a low moan. Jackson's voice, thick with a pleasure I knew so well.

And then another sound. A woman's gasp, a mix of pain and ecstasy. Candida.

"You animal," she whimpered. "I hate you."

"You love it," Jackson growled back, his voice a low thrum of passion. "Say my name, Candida. Say it."

"Never," she sobbed.

His response was a low laugh, followed by the rhythmic, unmistakable sounds of two bodies moving together.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands balling into fists. I pressed my face into the pillow to stifle the scream that rose in my throat.

He was in the next room, with the woman who had stabbed me, who had taken my future from me. He was making love to her, while I lay here, broken and alone.

My mind flashed back to a time when his parents had objected to our marriage because of my family's lower social standing. Jackson had stood up to them, his voice ringing with conviction. "I love Elena," he had declared. "I will marry her, with or without your blessing. She is the only one I will ever love."

He had been so fierce, so loyal. My rock. My protector.

That loyalty was now a joke. His love, a lie.

I lay there for hours, listening to the sounds of his betrayal, until the house finally fell silent. I didn't sleep. I just stared into the darkness, my heart completely and utterly dead.