The Hundred-Point Divorce

My heart hammered. My Moleskine, my "Strike List," lay open on Ethan's desk. Every betrayal, every point deducted from our marriage. One hundred points, and I'd be free. He'd already reached ninety-five.

Then came the fire, raging through his ex, Olivia's, restaurant. Ethan, my husband, became a frantic hero for her, oblivious to my presence, my pain. I was just background noise in his obsession. But the true horror emerged months later. Pregnant and hemorrhaging in the ER, fighting for my life, I needed an O-negative blood transfusion.

The doctor's voice was grim: "Your husband has reserved our entire O-negative supply for a Ms. Olivia Vance-for her minor cosmetic procedure." Over speakerphone, I heard Ethan's cold, impatient reply: "Olivia's needs are paramount. That blood is for her. My wife will have to wait." Our baby, our future, became collateral damage for his obsession. He chose her appearance over our child's life.

How could the man who swore to cherish me, who claimed to fulfill my dying father's wish, be capable of such monstrous indifference? Was I really just a convenient placeholder, waiting for his 'true love' to become available? The pain was a hollow echo now, not sharp, but vast and empty.

The score was final. One hundred points. My hand, trembling but resolute, reached for the divorce papers. I packed my life into boxes, leaving behind a marriage that was never really mine, and booked a one-way flight to Austin. This was not the end; it was the ferocious, unyielding beginning of my own story.

The Moleskine journal lay open on Ethan's mahogany desk. My Moleskine. My "Strike List."

My heart hammered. He wasn't supposed to see it.

It was where I wrote down every time Ethan hurt me, every point deducted from our marriage.

One hundred points, and I'd file for divorce.

He'd reached ninety-five. This discovery, his invasion of my privacy, would be the last five.

Ethan stood by the window, his back to me. He didn't turn.

"You saw it?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

He finally faced me, his expression cold. "Saw what? That notebook? Keep your clutter out of my study, Amelia."

He called me Amelia when he was annoyed.

My eyes stung. He hadn't even really looked at it. My pain, quantified, dismissed as clutter.

"Ethan, we need to talk about-"

"Not now," he cut me off. "I have a call."

His study wasn't just a study. It was a shrine to Olivia Vance.

Old photos of them from their Ivy League days at Yale were artfully arranged on the shelves.

Olivia's abstract paintings, ones she'd made in college, hung on the walls.

He'd kept everything. Her favorite books. A dried corsage.

Three years of marriage, and I was an intruder in Olivia's museum.

His phone rang then, a sharp, urgent sound.

He snatched it up. "Mark? What's wrong?"

His face went pale. "Her restaurant? On fire? Olivia-is she...?"

He didn't wait for an answer. "I'm on my way."

Ethan grabbed his keys, his movements frantic.

"The merger presentation is tomorrow, Ethan. You can't-"

"The merger means nothing if Olivia isn't safe!" he yelled, already halfway out the door.

He slammed it behind him.

The sound echoed in the silent apartment, a final punctuation to his priorities. Olivia first. Always.

My heart shattered. The blatant disregard, the casual cruelty.

I grabbed my purse and ran out, hailing a cab.

"Follow that black Range Rover!" I told the driver, pointing to Ethan's car speeding away.

He ran two red lights and swerved through traffic like a maniac.

All for Olivia.

We reached SoHo. Smoke billowed into the sky. Flames licked the trendy facade of "Vance," Olivia's new restaurant.

Ethan was already out of his car, pushing through the crowd.

"Olivia! Is Olivia Vance inside?" he shouted at a firefighter.

"Sir, we don't know yet. You need to stay back."

Ethan ignored him, trying to rush past the police line towards the burning building.

"Olivia!"

His friend, Mark, and another man grabbed his arms, pulling him back.

"Ethan, stop! It's too dangerous!" Mark yelled.

"Let me go! She could be in there!" Ethan struggled, his face contorted with panic.

"Think about the merger, man! If you get hurt, it's over!" David, another of his banker friends, reasoned.

"I don't care about the damn merger if she's not safe!" Ethan roared.

I watched from the curb, a cold knot forming in my stomach. This was the depth of his feeling. For her.

A stark, burning contrast to the ice he showed me.

This was the moment the last five points vanished from my mental Strike List. One hundred.

Divorce.

I remembered meeting Ethan. My senior year at Columbia. My father, a renowned architecture professor, adored him.

Ethan was his star finance student, charismatic, ambitious.

After Dad died, Ethan proposed. He said Dad's dying wish was for him to care for me.

He'd claimed he wanted to marry *me*.

I was grieving, vulnerable. I'd believed him. I'd even been flattered.

The truth came out a year later, at a drunken Wall Street holiday party.

I overheard Mark telling another colleague.

"Ethan finally caved. Married the professor's daughter."

"Thought he was holding out for Olivia Vance."

"Olivia married that Euro billionaire, moved to Monaco, remember? Amy was the rebound. Poor girl."

Ethan's years of rejecting other women weren't focus. It was pining. For Olivia.

The world tilted. My marriage was a lie.

I loved him, or the idea of him I'd built. So, I stayed.

I started the Strike List then, a small, black Moleskine. A way to cope.

A way to measure the slow death of our marriage.

Each transgression, a deduction. Him forgetting my birthday, then flying to Aspen because Olivia faked a ski accident: minus ten points.

Him abandoning me on the side of the I-95 in the pouring rain to pick Olivia up from JFK after her sudden return to NYC: minus fifteen.

Olivia had divorced her billionaire and was back. Ethan's neglect intensified.

Him losing our wedding bands – the simple gold ones I'd cherished – while "helping" Olivia set up a "charity auction" for her new "event planning venture": minus twenty.

The list grew. The points dwindled.

Suddenly, a firefighter near the restaurant entrance shouted, "We found someone! Clear a path!"

Ethan, who had been struggling against his friends, went still.

Then, he saw her. Olivia. Soot-streaked but walking, supported by two paramedics.

Ethan broke free from Mark and David, shoving past a police officer.

"Olivia!"

He reached her just as a section of the burning facade above the doorway groaned, then crashed downwards.

"Olivia, look out!" Ethan screamed.

He threw himself at her, pushing her clear, taking the brunt of the falling, flaming debris.

He crumpled to the ground.

Paramedics rushed to Ethan. Olivia was screaming, hysterical, but mostly unharmed.

Mark ran to my side. "Amy, Ethan's hurt. They're taking him to Mount Sinai. Olivia got out, she's okay, just shaken."

He looked away, then back at me, his expression awkward. "He was just... worried. Old friends, you know."

Old friends. The lie they all told. The lie I'd once tried to believe.

I nodded, numb.

Ethan was injured. Saving Olivia.

The Moleskine in my mind was full. One hundred points.

I'd go to the hospital. Then I'd call a lawyer.

I sat in the stark white waiting room at Mount Sinai. The air smelled of antiseptic and fear.

Hours passed. I remembered the Ethan I first knew, or thought I knew.

The charming, ambitious graduate student who'd impressed my father. The one who'd held my hand at Dad's funeral, promising to take care of me.

A phantom limb of that old infatuation ached.

Finally, a doctor approached, his face grim.

"Mrs. Cole? Your husband has severe second-degree burns on his back and arms. He'll recover, but it will be a long process. His keynote at the financial summit next week is definitely out."

"And... Olivia Vance?" I asked, my voice flat.

"Ms. Vance is unharmed. Just shaken up. She's resting."

Ethan's friends, Mark and David, hovered nearby. Mark patted my arm awkwardly.

"He's a hero, Amy. Olivia owes him her life."

David added, "She's just an old friend, really. He'd do that for anyone."

I didn't respond. Their reassurances felt like pebbles hitting a brick wall.

The next morning, I left the hospital before Ethan was allowed visitors.

I went straight to a lawyer, a woman Sarah Chen, my old classmate from Columbia Architecture, had recommended years ago.

Her name was Ms. Albright. Her office was cool, quiet, efficient.

"I want to file for divorce," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

She nodded, asked questions, took notes. The process was clinical, a counterpoint to the emotional storm inside me.

I signed the initial papers. It felt like shedding a heavy, suffocating coat.

I picked up some soup and a sandwich from a deli near the hospital, a strange, wifely habit I couldn't yet break.

When I got to Ethan's private room, Olivia was there.

She was attempting to feed Ethan soup, her movements clumsy.

She spilled a spoonful down his bandaged chest, and he winced in pain.

"Oh, Ethan, I'm so sorry! I'm useless," Olivia wailed, tears welling in her eyes.

Ethan, despite his obvious pain, managed a weak smile.

"It's okay, Liv. Don't worry. It's not your fault." He coughed. "Besides, I was already planning to step back from this merger. Too intense. Time to re-evaluate."

Olivia's eyes widened. "Step back? But... your career? Will you lose everything?"

Ethan looked at her, his gaze soft, almost reverent.

"You know," he said, his voice raspy, "the only reason I went into investment banking... remember that old movie we saw? With the powerful banker who could give the woman he loved the world?"

Olivia nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on his.

"You said you wanted a man like that," Ethan continued. "Someone who could give you everything. That's why I did it, Liv. For you."

Olivia's breath hitched. Tears streamed down her face.

"Oh, Ethan," she whispered, leaning forward.

She embraced him carefully, mindful of his bandages. He returned the embrace, his good arm holding her close.

It was a scene of profound intimacy, a declaration.

I stood in the doorway, the takeout bag slipping from my numb fingers. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

They didn't even notice.

I turned and fled.

Downstairs, near the elevators, I almost bumped into two of Ethan's colleagues from the bank.

They looked somber. One of them, a senior partner I vaguely recognized, held a folder.

"Mrs. Cole," he said, surprised. "We were just coming to see Ethan."

He gestured with the folder. "These are his approved sabbatical papers. He requested them last week."

My blood ran cold.

"The reason cited," the other colleague chimed in, a younger man, "was his desire to 're-evaluate life's priorities' and 'reconnect with a lost passion' now that 'she' is back in town."

She. Olivia.

His entire career. His planned sabbatical. All for Olivia.

I was a footnote. A placeholder. Disposable.

The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow.

I walked out of the hospital, into the harsh New York sunlight.

My path was clear now. No more illusions. No more waiting for Ethan to choose me.

I pulled out my phone, my fingers surprisingly steady.

I scrolled to Sarah Chen's number. She'd been urging me for years to co-found an architecture firm with her.

She was based in Austin, Texas. A fresh start.

Sarah answered on the second ring.

"Amy! What's up?"

"Sarah," I said, my voice clear and strong. "I'm getting a divorce. And I'm ready to start that firm. I'll move to Austin."

Sarah whooped on the other end of the line. "It's about damn time, Amy! Austin will be great for you! For us!"

For the first time in years, a tiny spark of something like hope ignited within me.

My own passion. My own life.