One Hundred Reasons To Walk Away

For three years, I documented my husband Ashton's neglect in a secret ledger I called "The Song of a Hundred Reasons." Each forgotten anniversary and dismissive glance was a point deducted from a hundred. When the points hit zero, I would walk away.

The final reason came not as a quiet slight, but as a deafening crash.

When a massive chandelier fell towards us in a restaurant, Ashton didn't hesitate. He shoved his "best friend" Bailey to safety, shielding her with his body while I was left to be crushed.

I woke up in the hospital with broken ribs and a severe concussion. He never visited.

Instead, he spent a fortune on a private med-jet to fly Bailey to a luxury retreat for her "panic attack." Her well-being was paramount; mine was an afterthought.

That was the final reason. I signed the divorce papers from my hospital bed and never looked back.

Two years later, holding a Grammy for my hit album "Song of a Hundred Reasons," he showed up, begging for a second chance.

Chapter 1

Elise Lynn POV:

The day I found the ledger was the day my life started its slow, painful re-write. It was buried deep in the back of Ashton' s massive, chaotic desk drawer, under a stack of old project blueprints and a half-eaten protein bar. I was looking for a pen, a mundane task in a marriage that had become nothing but mundane.

The cover was plain, a thick, dark leather, almost like a diary. It felt heavy in my hands, a silent invitation to something I knew I shouldn't touch.

But curiosity, like a venomous snake, had already coiled around my insides. I opened it.

"The Song of a Hundred Reasons."

The words were written in delicate, precise script on the first page, just like me. My stomach clenched. This wasn't Ashton's handwriting. This was mine.

Beneath the title, a set of rules. My rules. Rules I had forgotten I ever wrote.

Each entry logs an instance of neglect.

Each instance deducts one point.

Total points: 100.

When the points reach zero, I walk away.

I snorted, a dry, bitter sound that echoed in the silent mansion. A 'Song of a Hundred Reasons' ? How melodramatic. How perfectly me at some distant, naive point in time. I closed the book, about to put it back.

Then, a flicker of something in my periphery. Ashton' s phone, vibrating silently on the corner of the desk. A text message notification. From Bailey.

"Server failure. Project compromised. You' re my only hope, A."

My fingers tightened around the ledger. The memory of the text from Bailey, the urgent, proprietary tone, sliced through the thin layer of indifference I usually wore. It was a paper cut, small but sharp. I opened the book again, this time with a different intention. My eyes scanned the pages, skipping through the early, hesitant entries. They were neat, orderly. Little paragraphs detailing forgotten dinners, missed anniversaries, the times he' d gazed over my head while I was speaking, his mind clearly miles away with her.

Each one a tiny pinprick, but added up, they formed a growing bruise.

"Forgot our anniversary dinner for a 'crisis meeting' with Bailey, then blamed me for not reminding him."

"Said my new song was 'fine' without even listening beyond the first chorus, then spent an hour on the phone with Bailey discussing the nuances of her new algorithm."

"Ignored me completely at the family gala, introducing me as 'Ashton's wife' while gushing about Bailey's latest tech breakthrough to the board."

I felt a cold, hard knot of something unfamiliar twisting in my gut. This wasn't paranoia. This was documented truth. My truth.

I remembered the early days of our marriage, how I' d quietly cataloged these slights, believing that if I could just show him, he would understand. He would change. How foolish I had been.

I heard his car pull into the driveway, the crunch of tires on gravel a familiar sound that used to bring a flutter of anticipation, now just a dull thud of dread. I quickly snapped the ledger shut, shoving it back into the drawer.

He strode in, tie askew, eyes already on his phone. He didn' t even see me standing there, a ghost in my own living room.

"Ashton," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He startled, looking up as if surprised to find me in his house. "Elise. You' re home. I thought you were out."

"No, I'm here," I said, the words tasting like ash. "Waiting."

He didn' t ask what I was waiting for. He never did. He just nodded, already turning back to his phone. "I have to head out again. Bailey's project is in trouble. Catastrophic server failure."

Catastrophic server failure. The words felt like a punch to the gut. Not because of the server, but because of the name attached to it. Bailey. Always Bailey.

I watched him go, the image of his retreating back, always chasing her, burning into my brain. My hand instinctively went to the desk drawer, pulling out the ledger again. I flipped to the last page, the one I hadn't dared to look at. The next blank line.

I stared at it, my heart a dull ache in my chest. The words were already forming in my mind.

He left me again, for her. A catastrophic server failure is more important than me.

I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. The knot in my stomach loosened, replaced by a cold resolve. This wasn't melodrama. This was survival. And I was going to survive.

Elise Lynn POV:

The scent of stale coffee and my own desperation clung to me as I sat in the polished, sterile office of Ms. Davies, the family lawyer. The heavy mahogany table felt cold beneath my fingertips.

"I want a divorce," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, considering the earthquake inside me.

Ms. Davies, a woman whose calm demeanor belied a steel core, simply nodded. "Ashton. I understand. What are your terms?"

My terms. The words felt foreign. For three years, my terms had been Ashton's terms. Now, they were mine. "I want nothing from him. Just out."

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in her carefully neutral expression. "Are you sure, Elise? You're entitled to a substantial settlement."

"I want to be free," I repeated, the taste of the word like clean air after years of suffocating dust. "Free from him, free from his family, free from... everything connected to him."

We spent an hour going through the paperwork. Each signature felt like shedding a layer of skin, painful but necessary. When I walked out of her office, the city air hit me with a clarity I hadn't felt in years. The weight on my shoulders, the invisible chain I' d dragged behind me, felt lighter. Not gone, but lighter.

My car, a modest sedan Ashton had once called "quaint," felt like a chariot of freedom. I found myself driving on autopilot, a strange magnetic pull guiding me. I ended up at the hospital.

It was an old habit, one I couldn' t quite shake yet. When he was sick, when he was stressed, I would bring him his favorite obscure herbal tea and a specific type of artisanal bread from a bakery three towns over. It was a ritual, a silent plea for acknowledgement, for care.

I saw his car in the parking lot, gleaming under the hospital lights. I parked a little distance away, the habit of invisibility already ingrained. I walked towards his room, my steps slow, almost reluctant. As I approached, I heard voices from within. Not just Ashton's, but another, high-pitched and whiny. Bailey.

I paused at the slightly ajar door, the antiseptic scent of the hospital mingling with the cloying sweetness of the flowers inside.

Bailey was perched on the edge of Ashton's bed, looking utterly miserable. Her perfectly coiffed hair was slightly mussed, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She was holding a half-eaten sandwich with delicate distaste.

"It's just... I can't believe this happened," she wailed, her voice thick with self-pity. "My whole project, Ashton. Gone. And I almost went with it."

Ashton, pale but otherwise unharmed, patted her hand with a tenderness he hadn' t shown me in months. "It's okay, B. We'll fix it. Your career is too important."

"But my reputation!" she cried, pulling away from him. "What if people think I'm weak? What if they think I can't handle the pressure?"

Ashton' s gaze, usually so sharp and distant, softened with an almost desperate intensity. "No one will think that. I promise you, Bailey. I'd sacrifice everything I have for your success. My entire fortune, if it meant saving your project. You know that, right?"

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs. My entire fortune. Your success.

I pressed my hand against the cold, sterile wall, hoping to steady myself. This wasn't new. I had heard him say things like this before, in hushed tones, to investors, to rivals, always about her. But hearing it now, after signing those divorce papers, it twisted the knife in a new, excruciating way.

Bailey, sensing a shift in his mood, leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Ashton, it's always been you and me. That's why we're so good together. The way we challenge each other, the way we push each other to greatness."

Ashton smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that rarely reached his eyes when he looked at me. "Always, B. Always."

My vision blurred, the hospital corridor tilting precariously. The artisanal bread in the bag I was holding slipped from my numb fingers, hitting the linoleum floor with a soft thud. The sound was surprisingly loud in the hushed corridor.

Ashton and Bailey looked up, startled. Their faces, caught in the intimacy of their shared moment, froze.

Bailey, ever the actress, plastered a concerned look on her face. "Elise! Oh, my god, what are you doing here?"

Ashton, on the other hand, just looked annoyed. "Elise. What happened?"

He didn' t ask if I was okay. He asked what happened. As if I had somehow disrupted their little tableau.

My heart, which I thought had already turned to stone, fractured a little more. I looked at the bread, scattered on the floor, a symbol of all my wasted efforts, all my foolish hope.

"Nothing," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Just dropping off some... leftovers."

I turned, leaving the forgotten bread and the discarded tea on the floor. I walked away without looking back, the sound of Bailey' s overly dramatic "Oh, Ashton, are you alright?" echoing in my ears.

I reached the hospital entrance, my legs unsteady. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from my old friend, Chloe, a Nashville-based producer.

"Elise, I know it's been years. But I heard your demo tape again. You're still a genius. Call me. I have an idea. A big one."

I stared at the message, a tiny spark igniting in the vast emptiness inside me. A song. A new song. Not a "Song of a Hundred Reasons." A song of a hundred opportunities.

I walked out into the crisp night air, newfound resolve hardening my spine. The old me, the one who brought artisanal bread and hoped for a glance, was dead.

The phoenix was ready to rise.

Elise Lynn POV:

The plane ticket to Nashville felt like a golden key in my hand, unlocking a future I hadn't dared to dream of. Chloe was ecstatic when I called, and within a week, the groundwork for "New Anthem Records" was laid. It was a name I chose deliberately, a defiant declaration of a fresh start, a new song.

The first few weeks were a blur of meetings, spreadsheets, and endless brainstorming sessions with Chloe. My creative spark, long buried under Ashton's indifference, roared back to life. Ideas for melodies, lyrics, and artists poured out of me. It was exhilarating, a potent antidote to the emotional poison I had lived with for so long. Every note I composed, every business plan I drafted, felt like a brick in the foundation of my new self.

I ignored Ashton's calls. I blocked his number. His mother's increasingly frantic messages, accusing me of abandoning her "poor, recovering son," were also met with silence. Their voices, once capable of sending tremors through my carefully constructed walls, now felt distant, muffled.

Then, three weeks after I left, came the anniversary. The day Ashton would undoubtedly return to our empty home, expecting me.

I was at the office late, tweaking a new artist's demo, when my phone buzzed. An unknown number. I answered, a flicker of apprehension.

"Elise? It's Ashton." His voice. It was strange to hear it, like a ghost from a past life.

"Ashton," I replied, my voice cool, devoid of any warmth. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

A pause. "You're... working late?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yes. Some of us actually have jobs." The jab was unintentional, a reflex born of years of being unseen.

"I called the house," he said, ignoring my sarcasm. "No one answered."

"I don't live there anymore, Ashton. We're divorced."

Another silence, heavier this time. "Right. The papers. I... I wasn't expecting them."

"You signed them," I reminded him, my tone flat. "What do you want?"

"I was thinking... it's our anniversary," he began, his voice hesitant, almost vulnerable. "Maybe we could... celebrate? Dinner?"

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Celebrate what, Ashton? Your freedom? My escape?"

"Elise, don't be like this. I know things have been rough, but..."

"Rough?" I cut him off, a sharp edge entering my voice. "Rough is an understatement. You know, I kept bringing you your tea and artisanal bread even when you were in the hospital, even after you told Bailey you'd sacrifice your entire fortune for her."

He stammered. "I... I didn't mean it like that. I was just trying to reassure her. She was upset."

"And I wasn't?" My voice rose slightly, a tremor of the old pain surfacing. "I was lying in the cold, hard reality of your neglect, while you were stroking her hand. Did you think about me then?"

"Elise, you're being emotional." The familiar dismissive tone.

"I'm being human, Ashton. Something you wouldn't understand." I took a deep breath, reining in the anger. This wasn't about him anymore. It was about me. "Look, I have plans. I have a company to run. I have a life to build. Without you."

"But... I want to talk. We need to talk." He sounded desperate now, a note I had never heard from him before.

"Talk about what, Ashton? About how you don't know my favorite food anymore? About how you couldn't identify a single one of my songs if your life depended on it? About how you only remember I exist when Bailey isn't around?" My words hit him like a barrage of tiny, sharp stones.

Another pause. A heavy, suffocating silence.

"Are you going to contest the divorce?" I asked, cutting through the quiet.

"No," he said, the word barely audible. "I... I just thought..."

"You thought wrong." Just then, my office landline rang. It was Cason, my new business partner. "I have to go, Ashton. I'm busy."

"Elise, wait! Can you just meet me? For one last dinner? For old times' sake?" He sounded pleading.

A strange idea sparked in my mind. One last dinner. One last clear, undeniable moment to cement my decision. "Fine," I said, surprising myself. "Seven o'clock. The 'Golden Spoon' restaurant. Don't be late."

I hung up before he could respond. Cason walked in, a questioning look on his face. "Everything alright?"

"Perfectly alright," I said, a brittle smile on my face. "Just tying up loose ends."

I spent the next few hours with Cason, finalizing our plans for a new artist launch. He was kind, attentive, genuinely interested in my ideas. He saw me. The contrast was stark, a vivid illustration of everything I had been missing.

At six-thirty, I dressed in a simple black dress, a dress I had bought for myself, not for Ashton. I arrived at the Golden Spoon, a place I had once loved, now just a stage for my final act.

I saw Ashton's car pull up, him emerging with a bouquet of red roses and a small, elegantly wrapped package. My heart, against my will, gave a small, foolish flutter. A wisp of the old hope, a cruel, persistent ghost.

He saw me, and a cautious smile touched his lips. He started walking towards me, the flowers and package held out like an offering.

Then, another car pulled up. A sleek, black luxury sedan. And out stepped Bailey, looking radiant in a shimmering gown, her arm linked with another man. No, wait. She wasn' t linked with another man. She was linked with Ashton.

Ashton. Still holding the roses and the package.

Bailey, spotting me, beamed. "Elise! What a surprise! Ashton, darling, you didn't tell me you invited Elise to celebrate our gallery's grand reopening! How thoughtful!"

My breath hitched. Grand reopening? Not our anniversary? Not our dinner?

Ashton, looking like a deer caught in headlights, stammered, "Bailey, I... I just..."

Bailey, ignoring him, plucked the roses and the package from his hand. "Oh, these are lovely, Ashton! You remembered my favorite! And is this... the vintage art book I've been coveting?" She gasped, tearing open the paper with unfeigned delight. "Oh, darling, you shouldn't have! But I'm so glad you did!" She pressed a kiss to his cheek, a possessive, territorial gesture.

Ashton watched her, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He didn't look at me. Not once.

My lungs burned. My vision tunneled. The air tasted like ashes. He brought her flowers. He bought her the gift. On our anniversary.

"You're a good wife, Elise," Bailey purred, glancing at me with a smirk that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Always so understanding."

The words, dripping with saccharine poison, finally broke something inside me. Not my heart, not this time. My blind loyalty. My foolish belief that he could ever see me.

He didn't just forget. He didn't just neglect. He used me. He used my name, my presence, to make Bailey feel... what? More important? More desired? A prop in his twisted game.

I felt a cold rage blossom in my chest, pushing out the last vestiges of pain. It wasn't about love anymore. It was about dignity. And I was going to reclaim every last piece of mine.