Signed Away: His New Wife

In my past life, I died alone in a sterile hospital bed while my fiancé, Dyllan, comforted his "foster sister" Heather through a fake panic attack.

He missed the birth and death of our child because Heather was "too delicate" to be left alone.

Even as I took my last breath, he was wiping away her crocodile tears, ignoring my desperate calls.

I sacrificed my dreams, my money, and my life for him, only to be a forgotten footnote.

But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the City Hall counter, the marriage license waiting.

Dyllan tapped his foot impatiently, checking his phone.

"Hurry up, Ivy. Heather called. She' s having an episode. She needs me."

The old Ivy would have trembled and obeyed, desperate for his approval.

But I just smiled, a cold, calculated expression he didn't recognize.

"Go to her," I said, pushing him toward the door. "I'll handle the paperwork. Family comes first, right?"

He rushed out without a backward glance, relieved to be the hero again.

Left alone with the official document, I didn't write my own name on the bride's line.

With a steady hand and a heart full of vengeance, I wrote Heather Rosales.

Congratulations, Dyllan. You're legally married to the burden you love so much.

And I am finally free.

Chapter 1

**IVY POV**

The pen felt heavy in my hand, heavier than any burden I' d carried in my past life, which was saying something because in that life, I died alone, forgotten, after years of sacrificing everything for the man now tapping his foot impatiently beside me. Dyllan Chambers, my supposed fiancé, looked at me, then at the half-filled marriage license application lying on the cold, municipal counter. His impatience was a familiar ache deep in my gut.

"Ivy, what' s taking so long?" His voice was a low rumble, laced with the same frayed nerves that had become his default setting whenever Heather was involved. "We' re already running late. Heather called again, she' s having one of her... episodes."

My gaze lingered on the blank space labeled 'Applicant 1: Full Legal Name' . In another life, exactly five years ago, my hand would have trembled with joy, not this cold, calculated resolve. That Ivy would have etched her name with reverence, seeing it as the gateway to a shared future, a future that promised warmth and belonging. That Ivy would have ignored the red flags and the nagging doubts, clinging to the illusion of love.

But that Ivy was dead. She had died in a sterile hospital bed, the faint beeps of a monitor her only companion, while Dyllan, her husband, comforted his divorced foster sister, Heather, through a made-up anxiety attack. The memory was a fresh, raw wound, even now. The cold neglect had mirrored the cold steel of the gurney, the chill seeping into her bones long before her heart finally gave out. My fingers, now tracing the empty line, felt the phantom cold of that lonely death.

"Ivy?" Dyllan' s voice cut through the memory, sharper this time. He didn' t notice the distant look in my eyes, the ghost of a life unlived. He never noticed anything that wasn' t directly related to his own comfort or Heather' s manufactured crisis. "Are you feeling alright? You look a little... pale."

His concern was a shallow pool, easily drained. It wasn't for me, not really. It was for the inconvenience my paleness presented to his schedule, to his need to rush to Heather' s side. I gave him a noncommittal hum, a syllable devoid of emotion. My fingers still hovered over the form, the pen still poised.

He sighed, a dramatic gust of air that ruffled the sparse hair on his forehead. "Look, I know this is a big step, but we' ve talked about this for years. You know how important this is to Mom and Dad, and to... well, to Heather." He glanced at his phone, which had just vibrated with another message. His brow furrowed, his handsome face marred by a familiar strain. "She' s really struggling today. Maybe it' s the stress of us getting married. She feels replaced, you know? She always needs me, Ivy."

His words, meant to explain, were another nail in the coffin of my past life' s hopes. Heather, fragile and needy, a delicate flower requiring constant watering from Dyllan' s well of attention. I saw her in my mind' s eye, her big, innocent eyes, her pouty lips, her perpetually clutching at his arm. A 'white lotus,' as the internet called manipulative women who feigned purity. Dyllan, the hero, always falling for the damsel in manufactured distress.

A bitter, almost imperceptible smile touched my lips. An idea, cold and brilliant, solidified in my mind.

"You know," I said, my voice surprisingly even, "maybe you should go check on her."

Dyllan' s head snapped up. His eyes, usually so quick to criticize my lack of understanding, now held a flicker of surprise, then relief. It was as if I' d just handed him a Get Out of Jail Free card.

"You really think so?" He asked, a hopeful edge to his tone. "But the license..."

"It can wait," I said, shrugging. The lie tasted like ash, but it was a necessary ingredient in my new recipe for freedom. "Heather needs you. This is important too, but family comes first, right? Especially when someone' s in distress." I watched him, measuring his reaction. He was practically vibrating with the desire to leave.

"You' re right! You always understand, Ivy." He reached across the counter, his hand briefly covering mine. The touch was a hollow shell, devoid of the warmth I' d once craved. "I' ll just go calm her down. I promise, I' ll be back in an hour, two at most. We' ll get this done, and then we can celebrate properly tonight. Just you and me."

His words were a performance, a well-rehearsed script he' d used countless times. Just you and me. It always ended with Heather needing him more.

"Don' t worry about it tonight, Dyllan," I said, my voice softer than I intended. A strange wave of pity, quickly suppressed, washed over me. Pity for the man who would walk headfirst into his own misery. "Just make sure Heather is really okay. That' s what matters."

He nodded, already halfway turned towards the exit. "You' re the best, Ivy. Really. So understanding." He paused, then added, "It' s why I love you."

The words hung in the air, a familiar echo of a forgotten melody. I said nothing. What was there to say? To argue with a ghost? To fight for a love that was never truly mine? I had done that in another life, and it had killed me.

He was gone then, a whirlwind of hurried footsteps and the distant sound of his car starting. The door of the City Hall office clicked shut, leaving me standing alone, the pen still in my hand. I took a deep, shuddering breath, the stale air filling my lungs, then slowly releasing the suffocating weight that had settled there for years. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of liberation.

The image of that hospital room flashed, sharp and clear. The sterile white walls. The distant chatter of nurses. The constant, dull ache of a body giving up. And Dyllan' s voice on the phone, hushed and concerned, but not for me. "Heather, baby, just breathe. I' m coming. Ivy can handle things here." He had hung up without even a goodbye, without a single thought for the woman who was dying for him.

He wasn' t there when the doctor delivered the news about the pregnancy complications. He wasn' t there when our child, a tiny, struggling life, couldn' t make it. He wasn' t there to hold my hand when the pain, physical and emotional, threatened to tear me apart. He was always with Heather, comforting her through her latest fabricated crisis, wiping away her crocodile tears.

I remembered the day our son, our firstborn, asked him, "Daddy, why does Aunt Heather get all your time? Why not Mommy?" Dyllan had just ruffled the boy' s hair, a dismissive gesture. "Your Aunt Heather is delicate, son. She needs me more." And then he had looked at me, a silent accusation in his eyes, as if I were the one demanding too much. I had just swallowed the lump in my throat, the bitter taste of knowing my own child saw how little I mattered.

No. Not again. This life, this second chance, was not for that.

My gaze returned to the marriage license. With a steady hand, a hand that no longer trembled with sorrow or longing, I scratched out my own name in the 'Applicant 1' section. Then, with a defiant flourish, I wrote a different one.

Heather Rosales.

I pushed the form across the counter to the waiting clerk, a quiet, almost imperceptible smile playing on my lips.

"Here you go," I said. My voice was calm, utterly devoid of the storm that had just passed inside me.

The clerk, a bored woman with tired eyes, barely glanced at the paper. She took it, stamped it, and handed me a receipt. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I replied, the word tasting like freedom.

I walked out of City Hall, the crisp morning air hitting my face like a refreshing slap. The heavy weight that had settled in my chest for years, a crushing burden of unspoken grievances and unfulfilled hopes, had lifted. It was gone. Replaced by a lightness I hadn' t known existed. The world looked brighter, the colors sharper, the sounds clearer. It was like I had been living under a perpetual grey filter, and now, suddenly, the saturation had been turned all the way up.

Heather Rosales. The name still felt foreign, even after all these years. She had entered my life when I was ten, a year after my parents died and I was adopted by the Chambers. She was a year younger, a waif with huge, tear-filled eyes, clinging to Coralie Chambers, Dyllan' s mother. Coralie, who claimed to love both of us, but whose gaze always softened for Heather, whose voice always took on a sugary tone when she spoke to her. Heather knew how to play the part of the helpless victim, the grateful orphan, and Coralie ate it up. I, on the other hand, was the capable one, the one who cooked, cleaned, tutored Dyllan, and later, worked odd jobs to contribute to the household. My competence was my curse.

I remembered the day I got my acceptance letter to Chicago' s top law school. It was a dream, a beacon of hope in my otherwise mundane life. I' d shown it to Dyllan, excitement bubbling in my chest. He had looked at the letter, then at me, an unreadable expression on his face. Later that night, Heather had a particularly violent 'asthma attack,' her tiny body wracked with theatrical coughs, her face pale as a ghost. Coralie and Dyllan had rushed to her side, their faces etched with fear. Heather, between gasps, had whispered, "Don't leave us, Ivy. We need you. Who will take care of Dyllan when you're gone?"

The next morning, Dyllan had sat me down, his hand resting on my arm, his eyes earnest. "Ivy, I know this is hard, but... Heather really needs us. And Mom and Dad, they're getting older. My police academy training is so demanding. Can't you... can't you put off law school for a year or two? Just until we're more stable?" His words, coated in concern, had felt like a suffocating blanket. I had loved him then, foolishly, blindly. I had believed his future was my future. I had folded the acceptance letter, put it back in its envelope, and never looked at it again. Heather had recovered miraculously the next day. Her smile, when she thought I wasn' t looking, was triumphant.

Well, not this time. Heather could have Dyllan. She could have the life I once thought I wanted. I was going to Chicago. I was going to law school. And I was going to build a life, my own life, that was free.

**IVY POV**

The thought of Chicago pulsed through me like new blood, vibrant and exhilarating. The past was a heavy cloak I had worn for too long, but now, finally, I was shedding it. I had two weeks. Two weeks to pack my meager belongings, to gather the small sum of money I had painstakingly saved, penny by penny, from years of working menial jobs and tutoring Dyllan through his police exams. Money that Dyllan had, only last month, suggested we "lend" to Heather for a new car, because her old one was "giving her anxiety." I had refused then, a quiet rebellion simmering beneath my compliant surface. Now, that money was my ticket to freedom.

I walked back into the familiar, suffocating warmth of the Chambers' house. The scent of Coralie' s pot roast, usually comforting, now smelled cloying, like a trap. As I stepped into the living room, a high-pitched, sweet voice drifted from the kitchen. Heather. She was always home, always finding new ways to avoid actual work.

"Oh, Dyllan, you're back!" Heather's voice, syrupy and deliberately childlike, reached me. "Did you tell Ivy how much I missed you? I thought she' d never let you go!"

A low chuckle from Dyllan. "You know Ivy, always so serious. But she understood. She always does." His voice, thick with a smug satisfaction, made my stomach clench. "Said I should make sure you're doing okay."

"Oh, Ivy's so sweet!" Heather purred. "But I was so worried about you, about your future together... What if I' m always like this? What if I always need you, Dyllan? Will Ivy ever truly understand?" Her voice was a masterpiece of feigned vulnerability, a carefully constructed illusion of self-doubt.

"Of course she will, baby," Dyllan soothed. His voice vibrated with a possessive pride. "And even if she doesn't, I understand. You're my sister. I' ll always take care of you. Always." The words, meant for Heather, were a knife twisting in the old wound of my past life. Always. He had said that to me too, once. Empty promises, whispered under the guise of responsibility.

A sharp pain sliced through my chest. The old Ivy would have crumbled, tears stinging her eyes. But this Ivy, the reborn Ivy, just felt a cold, hard knot of resolve tightening in her gut. I took another deep breath, pushing the pain down, deep down, where it couldn' t touch me.

Then, I pushed open the kitchen door. The sound of my entrance made them both jump. Dyllan, still holding Heather' s hand, looked startled, his face flushing faintly. Heather' s carefully constructed façade of fragility fractured for a split second, a flash of annoyance in her eyes before it was replaced by wide-eyed innocence.

"Ivy! You're back!" Dyllan said, pulling his hand away from Heather' s as if burned. The sudden movement made Heather pout. "Everything okay at City Hall?"

"Everything's fine," I replied, my voice flat, devoid of any warmth. I didn' t look at either of them directly. My gaze swept over the kitchen, noting the pile of unwashed dishes from breakfast, the crumbs on the counter – Heather' s usual contribution to household chaos. "Just a bit of paperwork."

"Oh, right, the license!" Heather chirped, a little too brightly. "I told Dyllan you two should celebrate tonight! Maybe a fancy dinner, just the two of you!" Her eyes darted to Dyllan, a silent challenge.

Dyllan cleared his throat. "Yeah, Ivy, how about it? Tonight? To celebrate?" He looked at me, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. He wasn't used to me being so... unreadable.

"I can' t tonight," I said, without missing a beat. The words tasted like freedom. "I have too much to do. And I' m pretty tired."

Dyllan' s jaw dropped. He literally blinked at me. "Tired? But... this is our engagement! Our marriage license day!" His voice held a note of genuine shock. He had expected me to jump at the chance, to be grateful for his crumbs of attention.

Just then, Heather, ever the opportunist, piped up, her voice trembling slightly. "Oh, my goodness, Ivy, what happened to your bracelet? The one Dyllan gave you for your birthday last year? The silver one with the little sapphire? It was so beautiful." She held up her wrist. Around it, glinting in the kitchen light, was my bracelet. The one Dyllan had given me, the only piece of jewelry he' d ever bought me. The one I had loved and cherished, worn everyday as a symbol of his supposed affection.

My blood ran cold. The coldness was familiar, a ghost from my past life where Heather had always taken what was mine. But this time, there was no pain, only a detached observation.

"Oh, this old thing?" Heather giggled, a sickly sweet sound. "I saw it on your dresser, Ivy, and just thought it was so pretty! I hope you don't mind. I didn't think you'd be wearing it today, since you're so busy." She tugged at Dyllan' s sleeve, her eyes wide and innocent. "Isn't it pretty, Dyllan?"

Dyllan, ever the protector, immediately stepped in. "Heather, give that back to Ivy. That's hers." But his tone was soft, not truly admonishing.

I shook my head. "It's fine," I said, the words barely a whisper. I looked at Heather, her smug smile hidden beneath an exaggerated blush. "You can keep it, Heather. It never really suited me anyway."

The bracelet. That bracelet had been with me through so much. In my past life, when he had given it to me, I had felt a burst of hope, a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe, he did see me, did love me. I had worn it during my lonely pregnancy, during the agonizing labor, during the quiet moments of grief. It had been a symbol of a promise he never kept. Now, it was just a piece of metal. A burden.

Both Dyllan and Heather stared at me, their mouths slightly ajar. They expected a fight, tears, a dramatic scene. They expected the old Ivy.

But the old Ivy was gone.

"I'm going to my room," I said, my voice flat. "I need to study." I turned and walked away, not waiting for a response. I heard the faint murmur of their confused voices behind me, but I didn't care.

I closed the door to my small bedroom, the one I had shared with Heather for years before she demanded her own. I locked it. The click of the lock was a satisfying thud, a solid barrier between my past and my future.

I pulled out the law school application forms, my eyes scanning the requirements. My acceptance letter from five years ago, yellowed at the edges, lay beneath them. This time, there would be no deferral. No excuses. I had lost five years, a lifetime, to a family that never truly saw me.

"Law school, Chicago, full scholarship," I muttered, reading the faded script. I had to reapply, of course. But the dream was still there, vibrant and alive. I had to work twice as hard, make up for lost time. The application deadline was looming, a mere month away. I had to ace the LSATs. I had to write compelling essays. I had to prove to myself, and to the world, that I was more than Dyllan' s overlooked shadow.

A frantic knock on my door startled me. Dyllan.

"Ivy? Are you really okay? What's going on?" His voice was muffled, laced with a familiar note of paternalistic concern. He probably thought I was having a breakdown, a moment of pre-wedding jitters. He had no idea.

**IVY POV**

Dyllan' s concern was a thin veneer, easily scratched. He wasn't really worried about my emotional state. He was worried about the disruption to his perfectly ordered life, the one where I was always stable, always supportive, always there. I heard him shift his weight outside my door, a nervous energy radiating even through the wood.

"Ivy? You're not answering. I'm starting to worry." His voice was a practiced blend of care and mild annoyance.

I rolled my eyes. Worry. He didn' t know the meaning of the word. I knew it intimately. I had lived with it for years, worrying about his career, his parents' health, Heather' s endless demands.

"I' m fine, Dyllan," I called out, my voice flat, devoid of the soft reassurance he always expected from me. "Just studying."

"Studying?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "For what? You finished your undergrad years ago."

I paused. No point in telling him my real plans yet. It would only cause a scene, a drama I couldn't afford right now. "Just some online courses," I lied, vaguely. "Keeping my mind sharp."

"Right. Well, I just wanted to make sure you're okay. And, uh, about the money." He cleared his throat. "The twenty-five hundred you gave me for the deposit on that apartment?"

My ears perked up. The apartment. The small, dingy apartment we were supposed to move into after the wedding. I had paid the deposit, my hard-earned savings, because Dyllan had claimed his police salary barely covered his own expenses, let alone a nest egg. He had said he' d pay me back when his next bonus came through. He never did.

"Yes?" I prompted, my voice ice cold.

He stammered. "Well, Heather had another one of her... emergencies. Her credit card bill was huge, and Coralie was really upset. Heather was crying, saying she had no money for food. So, I... I kind of used a little bit of that deposit money to help her out." He rushed the words, as if speeding through them would make them less offensive. "But I promise, I' ll pay you back. As soon as my next paycheck comes in. Maybe two paychecks."

I closed my eyes, a wave of weariness washing over me. This was Dyllan. Always the savior. Always sacrificing my needs, my money, for Heather' s manufactured crises. This wasn' t just a one-time thing. It was a pattern, a deep rut carved by years of enabling. In my past life, he had done the same with our honeymoon fund, our down payment for a house, even money for our child' s school. Always, Heather' s needs were more urgent, more deserving.

"How much?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft.

"Uh, two thousand," he mumbled. "But Ivy, she really needed it! You know how fragile she is."

Two thousand dollars. My heart didn't clench with hurt, not anymore. It just felt cold, like a stone. It was money I desperately needed for Chicago. But I had a plan.

"Get out, Dyllan," I said, my voice firm. "I' m busy. And I want that money back. All of it. Before the end of the week."

"Before the end of the week?" He sounded incredulous. "Ivy, that' s impossible! Do you know how much a police officer makes? And for Heather, you know I can' t just... It' s not like you need it right now anyway. You're always so frugal. Why are you being so selfish?" His voice took on a sharp, injured tone.

Selfish. The word echoed in my mind, a cruel joke. I chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Frugal? Or self-sacrificing, Dyllan? There's a difference. And don't you dare call me selfish. You have no idea what that word truly means."

"Well, you just don't understand how hard it is for me!" he pleaded, his voice rising. "I'm trying to take care of everyone! And you're just making it harder."

"Leave," I repeated, my voice devoid of emotion. "And get me my money."

I heard him huff, a frustrated sound, then his footsteps retreated. The front door slammed shut a few minutes later. Good.

I spent the next few days in a blur of activity. I quietly sold almost everything I owned that held no sentimental value – my old textbooks, some clothes I rarely wore, trinkets and gifts Dyllan had given me over the years. Each item sold was a tiny step towards my freedom. The engagement ring he had given me, a modest diamond he had picked out with Coralie' s 'help' , went first. It fetched a decent price. I felt nothing but relief as I handed it over. It was never a symbol of love, but a tether to a life I no longer wanted.

On Thursday evening, Dyllan knocked on my door. He looked tired, his handsome face lined with stress. He held out an envelope.

"Here," he said, his voice clipped. "Two thousand. I had to borrow it from a patrol buddy. You happy now?"

I took the envelope, not bothering to count the cash. "Content," I corrected him. "Not happy."

His eyes narrowed as he noticed the nearly empty closet, the packed bags discreetly tucked away. "What are you doing?"

Just then, Coralie's voice drifted from the living room. "Dyllan, honey, Heather's on the phone! She's worried about her dress for the wedding!"

Dyllan's head snapped towards the sound. His priorities, as always, were clear.

"Ivy, what are you doing?" he asked again, a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes, quickly overshadowed by his usual distraction. "Are you packing for the honeymoon? I told you we can't afford that exotic island Heather talked about right now."

I gave him a small, tight smile. "No honeymoon, Dyllan. Not for me. Not with you."

His face paled. "What... what are you talking about?"

Coralie's voice, sharper this time, called, "Dyllan! She needs you!"

He looked torn, his eyes darting between me and the living room. The struggle lasted only a second. Heather always won.

"I need to go," he said, already backing away. "We'll talk later. You're just stressed. Maybe you need a break."

He still thought I was the old Ivy, the one who would explain, beg, fight for his attention. He couldn't grasp the cold, hard reality of my detachment. I didn't want to explain. I didn't want to fight. I wanted out.

"Don't worry about me, Dyllan," I said, a strange, hollow feeling in my chest. "I'm fine. You go make sure Heather's dress is perfect. That's what really matters, isn't it?"

He nodded, a relieved expression spreading across his face. "Yes! Exactly! You get it, Ivy. You always do." He turned, his hurried footsteps echoing down the hall.

His words, his easy dismissal, only solidified my resolve. He still didn' t see me. He never would.

Suddenly, Heather appeared at the end of the hall, her eyes red-rimmed, a delicate lace dress draped over her arm. "Dyllan, they said the seamstress can't fix it in time unless we pay extra! And it's so expensive!" She burst into fresh tears, her face crumbling into a picture of perfect distress.

Dyllan was at her side in an instant, his arm around her, murmuring reassurances. He didn' t even glance back at me.

I watched them, a strange calm settling over me. The stage was set. The players were in position. I closed my bedroom door, but I didn' t lock it this time. The game had changed. My future was waiting.