The 99th Time We Fell Apart

My first life ended alone in a hospital room, not with a bang, but with the quiet hum of an IV.

My husband, Ethan Lester, had spent months tearing me down, flaunting an affair, and relentlessly pursuing a divorce.

It was only after death, in an empty void, that the shattering truth unfolded: Ethan had pancreatic cancer, a secret burden he bore alone.

His cruelty was a desperate, twisted act of love, a brutal attempt to push me away so I wouldn't witness his agonizing decline.

He even took his own life after my funeral, convinced I'd find happiness with my ex.

Then I woke up, alive, the familiar scent of our apartment filling my lungs.

Across from me sat Ethan, divorce papers clutched in his hand, his eyes a mask of indifference.

"This is the 99th time, Jocelyn," he said, "Sign them. My girlfriend is pregnant."

In my past life, those words broke me.

But this time, seeing the subtle tremor in his hand, the deep circles under his eyes, I knew I was facing the same painful charade.

Why would he go to such lengths to push me away?

What kind of love forces such a cruel deception?

I picked up the papers, slowly, deliberately, and tore them in half.

I knew his secret.

And this time, I wouldn't let him die.

My first life ended in the sterile quiet of a hospital room, not with a bang, but with the slow, agonizing drip of an IV.

I died alone, convinced my husband, Ethan Lester, despised me.

I believed his cruelty, his relentless pursuit of a divorce, his flaunted affair-I believed it all.

It was only after death, in that strange, formless void, that I saw the truth.

I saw Ethan at my funeral, a man hollowed out by a grief no one understood.

I heard his whispered confession to my empty casket, the words "pancreatic cancer" a death sentence he had hidden from me.

His cruelty wasn't hate; it was a desperate, twisted act of love, a plan to push me away so I wouldn't have to watch him wither and die.

He wanted me to return to my ex, Caleb, to have a normal, happy life.

Then I saw him take his own life, a final, heartbreaking testament to a love I never knew he had.

And then... I woke up.

The familiar scent of our shared apartment filled my lungs.

Sunlight streamed through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.

I was alive.

And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I had been given a second chance.

My gaze fell on the man standing before me, his handsome face a mask of cold indifference.

Ethan Lester.

My husband.

He tossed a stack of papers onto the coffee table between us.

They slid to a stop right in front of me.

Divorce papers.

"This is the 99th time, Jocelyn," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Sign them. My girlfriend is pregnant. I don't want to waste any more time on this."

In my first life, these words had shattered me.

Now, they were just noise, the meaningless script of a tragedy I refused to let happen again.

I looked at him, really looked at him.

I saw the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the subtle tremor in his hand as he clenched it at his side, the deep, dark circles under his eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

He was in pain.

I reached out, my fingers brushing against the crisp papers.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I tore them in half, and then in half again, letting the pieces flutter to the floor like dead leaves.

Ethan's eyes widened in shock, a crack in his carefully constructed facade.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

I met his gaze, my own eyes clear and steady.

"I know you're sick, Ethan," I said, my voice quiet but firm. "I know about the pancreatic cancer."

For a moment, the world stood still.

The cold mask on Ethan's face didn't just crack, it shattered, revealing a flash of pure, unadulterated panic.

It was gone in a second, replaced by a sneer so cruel it would have broken my heart in my previous life.

"Pancreatic cancer?" he scoffed, a bitter, humorless laugh escaping his lips. "Jocelyn, have you been watching too many soap operas? Is this your new, pathetic attempt to stop this divorce?"

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper.

"Let me be clear. I don't love you. I haven't for a long time. I'm with Wendy now, and she's giving me what you never could: a child. A family."

He straightened up, adjusting the cuffs of his expensive shirt.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take Wendy shopping. We need to buy things for the baby."

He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The sound echoed in the silent apartment.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

I simply stood up, grabbed my purse and keys, and followed him.

I knew this was part of his act.

In my first life, I had run, blinded by tears, hiding myself away to lick my wounds.

This time, I would be his audience.

I hailed a taxi and told the driver to follow Ethan's sleek black car.

The driver, a kind-faced man in his fifties, glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

"You okay, miss?"

"Just follow the car," I said, my voice tight.

As I predicted, Ethan drove to a trendy, ridiculously expensive boutique in SoHo, a place he knew I loved.

He met a young, beautiful woman outside.

Wendy Chavez.

The struggling actress he'd hired to play his mistress.

I watched from the taxi across the street as he put his arm around her, a possessive, theatrical gesture for my benefit.

They went inside.

I told the driver to wait.

He just nodded, his eyes filled with a sad understanding.

They were in there for over an hour.

My heart ached, a phantom pain from a past life.

Even knowing it was a lie, seeing him with another woman, seeing him pretend to build a new life, hurt.

It was a testament to how good his acting was, and how deeply I still loved him.

Finally, they emerged, their hands full of shopping bags from high-end baby brands.

Wendy looked uncomfortable, but Ethan's face was a study in smug satisfaction.

He looked directly at my taxi, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

Then, he pulled Wendy close and kissed her.

It was a hard, possessive kiss, meant to be the final, killing blow.

Wendy looked surprised, then annoyed.

Ethan's eyes, however, were locked on my taxi.

He was watching for my reaction.

He wanted to see me break.

I slumped down in my seat, pretending to be devastated.

I told the driver to go, to just get me out of there.

He pulled away from the curb slowly.

As we turned the corner, I glanced back.

I saw Ethan's shoulders sag in relief.

The show was over.

He thought he had won.

"Circle the block," I told the driver, my voice now firm. "And park on the next street over."

He looked at me, a new respect in his eyes.

"You got it."

I got out of the taxi and walked back, staying in the shadows of the buildings.

I saw Ethan say something sharp to Wendy.

He handed her an envelope, likely her payment.

She took it, gave him a look of mixed pity and disgust, and hailed her own cab.

Once she was gone, Ethan's entire demeanor changed.

The ruthless CEO vanished.

He leaned against the wall of the boutique, his face pale and contorted in pain.

His hand pressed hard against his abdomen, right over his pancreas.

The mask was gone.

All that was left was a man in agony, all alone on a busy New York street.

My heart clenched.

This was the real Ethan.

The one I had to save.