The 48th Lie
Today is my sixth wedding anniversary. It's also the day my husband, Liam, brought up divorce for the 47th time.
He does this for Seraphina, his childhood friend. The woman who orchestrated a car crash on our wedding day, a tragedy that left her unable to have children and left him shackled by a debt of guilt. For six years, I have been the price of his repayment.
I endured the relentless cycle. But this time was different. This time, after Seraphina pushed me down a spiral staircase, Liam promised me justice. He swore he would make her pay.
Instead, he ensured the smart home security system "mysteriously" erased all evidence.
That night, from the supposed safety of a house he had arranged, Seraphina had me kidnapped. As her hired thugs tore at my clothes in the back of a cold, dark van, I managed to make one desperate emergency call to Liam through my smartwatch.
He saw my plea. And he hung up.
I leaped from that moving van, not onto asphalt, but into the cold, unforgiving sea. As I fought for my life in the icy water, swallowed by the darkness, I made a vow.
This time, there would be no 48th remarriage.
This time, I would simply cease to exist.