Too Late for Apologies

For nearly a decade, I walked through life as Mrs. Hamilton, wife to the charming and successful Ethan.

Our perfect marriage was more than a facade; it was my very existence, bound by a secret Soul Pact that determined whether I lived or died.

Then, seven days before my designated survival deadline, Ethan casually dropped a bombshell: he needed a temporary divorce for his latest fling, a demanding young intern named Chloe.

He offered me designer bags and an unlimited credit card, oblivious that he was asking me to sign my own death warrant, effectively sealing my fate.

Chloe, triumphant and venomous, reveled in my humiliation from my very own penthouse, mocking me as "old news" while lounging in my favorite spots.

Ethan, valuing his mistress's fleeting whims over my life, eagerly discarded our shared history and sent me away.

The chilling countdown from the Soul Pact System inside me confirmed my imminent end-a meticulously "staged accident" awaited.

How could someone mistake my life for a casual game, oblivious that his "temporary break" was my permanent end?

My heart ached with the profound loneliness of carrying this fatal secret alone, a cruel irony after years of quiet endurance.

I died in a fiery crash, right on schedule.

But then, a cold, digital voice whispered, "System error. Collect 100 Regret Points from Ethan to be reborn."

Now, an unseen spectator, my very existence hinges on the depth of his sorrow.

Ethan sat across from me, the morning light catching the gold in his hair.

He stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the porcelain.

Nine years, eleven months, and twenty-three days.

That' s how long we' d been married.

Seven more days, and the pact would be complete. Ten years.

My continued existence in this world depended on it.

"Sarah," he began, his voice smooth, like always.

"I need to ask you for something."

I waited, my hands resting in my lap.

"Chloe is... well, she' s a bit upset."

Chloe. The latest one. Young, an intern at his company.

"She wants something more permanent, you know how these girls are."

He smiled, a charming, boyish smile that used to make my heart flutter.

Now, it just felt cold.

"So, I was thinking, a temporary divorce. Just for a week or so."

My breath caught. A week. Seven days.

He didn' t know. He couldn' t know what that meant.

"Just to show her I' m serious, then we sort things out, and you' re still Mrs. Hamilton. Always."

He reached for my hand, but I pulled away slightly.

His eyes flickered with mild surprise, then settled back into their usual confidence.

"It' s just a piece of paper, Sarah. It doesn' t change anything between us, not really."

He said it so casually, this extreme demand, like asking to borrow a book.

His reason, Chloe' s tantrum, felt like a flimsy excuse.

A wave of shock hit me, but I kept my face calm. Betrayal was an old friend.

My chest felt tight, a familiar ache.

He thought this was a game, a way to manage his affairs.

He had no idea he was asking for my life.

"A temporary divorce," I repeated, my voice even.

"Yes, just for seven days. To appease her."

He looked relieved that I wasn' t screaming.

"She' s threatening to make a scene, and it' s bad for the company image right now."

His company. Always his company.

Inside, I was reeling.

The Soul Pact. I' d entered it unknowingly after the accident, the one that should have killed me.

Live ten years as Ethan Hamilton' s wife, in this timeline.

If the marriage ended before ten years, and we lived separately for seven consecutive days, I would die.

My soul would return to my original timeline, moments before that first, fatal crash.

Mission failure.

He was asking me to sign my own death warrant, seven days before I fulfilled the terms.

The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth.

He saw this as a solution, a manipulation.

I saw it as the end.

My isolation felt absolute, this secret a heavy weight I carried alone.

"Okay, Ethan," I said, my voice quiet. "If that' s what you need."

His smile widened. "I knew you' d understand, Sarah. You always do."

He didn't understand anything at all.

The lawyer' s office was cold, all glass and steel, much like Ethan' s heart these days.

He was being overly solicitous, a performance for the lawyer, perhaps.

"I' ve arranged a few things for you, Sarah," he said, gesturing to a sleek black box on the table.

Inside were designer bags, the latest models.

Next to it, a platinum credit card. "No limit," he added with a wink.

Superficial reassurances. Lavish gifts.

He thought these things could smooth over the chasm he was creating.

I felt nothing looking at them, just a deep weariness.

My emotional detachment was a shield I had built over years of his "excitement" seeking.

I remembered the early days, his fierce attention, the way he' d look at me.

Then came the first affair, the hushed apologies, the promises.

Then the second. The third.

Each betrayal had chipped away at something inside me.

The pain had dulled over time, replaced by a pragmatic acceptance.

I stayed, not just because of the unspoken Soul Pact, but because this life, the stability, the Hamilton name, had become my reality.

Love had faded, replaced by a need for security.

But Chloe was different.

He' d never been this blatant, this willing to disrupt our entire life for one of them.

This felt like a new level of disregard, a finality.

Chloe' s influence was stronger, more consuming than any before.

I picked up the pen. "Where do I sign?"

My hand was steady. Detached.

Ethan shifted in his chair, a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, in his eyes.

He cleared his throat. "Right here, Sarah."

He avoided looking directly at me as I signed the papers that would, in seven days, end my life here.

His performance of reluctance was unconvincing. He wanted this.

"You can stay at the penthouse for a few days, of course," he said, trying to sound considerate.

"But Chloe, well, she' s eager to... you know."

His excuse was flimsy. He wanted me gone, quickly.

To make space for her.

Just as the lawyer was putting the signed documents into a folder, the door opened.

Chloe.

She sauntered in, a bright pink dress clinging to her young frame, a triumphant smirk on her face.

She walked straight to Ethan, looped her arm through his.

"Is it done, baby?" she cooed, loud enough for me to hear clearly.

She glanced at me, her eyes full of open disdain. "So, Mrs. Hamilton, soon to be ex. How does it feel?"

The humiliation was a fresh sting, despite my numbness.

Ethan looked flustered. "Chloe, not now."

He tried to sound angry, protective of my feelings.

But I knew it was about appearances, about the promise he likely made to her.

His eyes darted to me, then back to Chloe, a silent plea for her to behave.

Then, he turned to me. "Sarah, perhaps it' s best if you move out today. To avoid... awkwardness."

His priority shifted that quickly. Appease Chloe. Get me out.

My resignation deepened. This was the reality.

Back at the penthouse, I started packing a small suitcase.

Ethan watched me, impatient.

"What about all this stuff?" he asked, gesturing to a box in the corner of the closet.

It held old love letters from our courtship, photos from a ski trip to Aspen when we were still happy, a few handmade trinkets I' d given him.

"Just... get rid of it, Sarah. It' s old. We need a fresh start, you know?"

His words were casual, dismissive. Our shared history, now just "old stuff."

I picked up the box, its weight familiar in my hands.

I walked to the service elevator, then to the building' s dumpster area.

With a quiet thud, I dropped the box of memories inside.

The symbolism was stark. He was discarding me, and our past, just as easily.

As I was about to leave the apartment, he stepped closer.

He reached out, as if to hug me.

"Sarah, this isn' t goodbye. It' s just... for a little while."

I stepped back. "Don' t, Ethan. Chloe wouldn' t like it."

His face fell, a brief flash of guilt, or maybe just annoyance.

I walked out, the door clicking shut behind me.

In the elevator, a cool, mechanical voice sounded in my head, not from any speaker.

[Soul Pact System]: "Warning. Marital dissolution initiated. Separation protocol active."

My heart pounded. It was real.

[Soul Pact System]: "Ten-year mission term: 9 years, 11 months, 23 days. Mission failure imminent if separation exceeds seven standard days."

The voice was devoid of emotion.

[Soul Pact System]: "Consequence of mission failure: Soul entity destabilization. Return to origin point timeline. Scheduled departure method: Staged fatal accident."

A staged accident. Just like the one that brought me here.

[Soul Pact System]: "Countdown initiated: 7 days remaining."

Dread, cold and absolute, settled over me.

I remembered the original accident, the screech of tires, the blinding pain.

Then waking up in a hospital, in a life that wasn' t mine, with Ethan by my side, calling me his wife.

The System had explained it then, a rare temporal displacement, a second chance bound by a Soul Pact.

Ten years of marriage to Ethan Hamilton.

Success meant I could continue this life, perhaps even find a way to truly live it.

Failure meant going back, to die as I was originally supposed to.

I had almost made it. Seven more days.

And now, Ethan, in his careless pursuit of fleeting pleasure, had doomed me.

The tragedy of it was a bitter pill. I was trapped, my fate sealed by his whim.