Too Late to Marry in HasteChapter 1

It was the eighth year since my husband, Vincent, had come back to me.

His mistress, unable to wait any longer, had finally married someone else.

Vincent drank himself into a bleeding ulcer at a bar and held my hand all night, whispering, “I’m sorry, Layla. I’m so sorry.”

Layla was the young woman he’d kept on the side.

I had waited her out, from her fresh-faced youth until the first lines appeared around her eyes. Now, her patience had run out. She was getting married tomorrow, and she had deliberately chosen my wedding anniversary to do it.

A final, spiteful jab to show me she hadn't truly lost this war.

But I had been waiting for this day for a long time, too.

I sent the video of her and Vincent to her new in-laws. Then, I asked Vincent for a divorce.

* * *

This was the eighth anniversary we’d celebrated since Vincent had returned to our marriage. It had also been eight years since he’d broken it off with his mistress.

I was thirty-five now. The mistress was thirty. We weren't young anymore.

I no longer shared the little details of my day with Vincent. I didn’t get jealous. I didn’t check up on him. I had become the perfect, detached wife he’d always wanted.

In turn, Vincent had started to love me more and more. He’d even consulted a spiritual advisor to find the perfect burial plot for us to share.

On our anniversary, I cooked a feast and called him.

He didn't answer.

I called again and again, persistently. I had my eye on a sprawling penthouse, and a sentimental day like this was the perfect time to get Vincent to sign the check. I usually didn't care where he was or what he was doing, but today, he had to show up.

Finally, someone answered. “Sophie, it’s Ben. Vince is in the hospital—bleeding ulcer. You need to get here, fast.”

I calmly finished the dinner I’d prepared for myself and texted back, Okay.

On my way to the hospital, I got a message from Layla.

See? Even though I’m getting married, he’s still thinking of me. I did this on purpose, just to ruin your anniversary.

If I can’t be happy, neither can you.

You used your dead child to guilt him into coming back to you. You should have known this was coming. When you wake up in the middle of the night, do you ever think about that poor, lost baby?

I closed my eyes, a sharp pain twisting in my chest.

Soon, I would have justice for my child.