Marrying The Protector: My Second Chance
The clerk at the DMV looked at me like I was stupid, or perhaps just clinically insane. She slid my paperwork back under the thick glass partition, her expression flat, and said the words that ended my life: "Ma'am, I cannot renew a license with your married name. Your marital status in the system is listed as 'Divorced.' It has been for three years."
My husband, Jackson, had just kissed me goodbye, yet the clerk revealed he remarried three years ago, having a son with his new wife, Candida. My entire marriage, our five years, was a monstrous lie.
Stunned, I’d lived a cruel charade, trying for a baby with a man who already had one. Pregnant, Jackson pushed me at a gala, publicly choosing his new family. My pregnancy tragically ended.
Every tender word he’d spoken was a performance. He kept me as a "PR shield," letting me mourn a future he’d already built. His betrayal was absolute.
With nothing left, I chose to die. A death certificate was arranged, my past cremated. Lena Rose was born in France, ready to paint my pain into power, authoring my own story.
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Chapter 5
Elena POV
I woke up in a hospital bed. Again.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hit me first, triggering a violent wave of nausea. I sat up, wincing as the stitches in my arm pulled tight against the tender skin.
"Easy," a deep voice said.
Hamilton was sitting in the chair next to the bed. He looked wrecked. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal tense forearms. He had been there all night.
"How did I get here?" I asked, my voice rasping like sandpaper.
"I brought you," he said grimly. "I was at the gala. I saw everything."
I closed my eyes, the memory flashing behind my lids like a strobe light. "Then you saw him push me."
"I saw him choose them," Hamilton said. The anger in his voice was a low, terrifying rumble. "Elena, you can't go back to him. You know that, right?"
"I know."
I looked at him. Hamilton had been my friend since high school. He was the one who cleaned my scraped knees when I fell off my bike. Now, he was patching me up after my husband threw me away.
"The baby?" I asked, fearing the answer yet already knowing it in the pit of my stomach.
Hamilton looked down at his hands, unable to meet my gaze. "The stress... the fall... Elena, you miscarried."
The world went silent.
I didn't cry. I felt hollowed out, scraped clean inside. There was nothing left to break.
"Good," I said.
Hamilton looked up, shocked. "Elena?"
"It's good," I repeated, staring blankly at the ceiling tiles. "There are no ties left. No chains. Nothing to hold me hostage."
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. Just help me."
"Anything."
"I need the divorce papers. The ones I had drafted months ago. I need them here. Now."
Two hours later, Jackson walked in.
He didn't bring flowers. He looked annoyed, checking his watch as he strode into the room, bringing the scent of expensive cologne and indifference with him.
"Hamilton," he nodded curtly. Then he turned to me. "You made quite a scene last night, Elena. The PR team is working overtime to spin this."
He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't ask about my arm. He certainly didn't know about the baby he had just killed.
"I'm sorry to inconvenience you," I said, my voice absolute zero.
"Look, I know you're upset about Joey. We can talk about a settlement. But you need to issue a public apology to Candida. You scared the boy."
I laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound that scraped against my throat.
"An apology?" I asked.
"Yes. For attacking her."
I reached for the manila envelope on the bedside table. With every ounce of strength I had left, I threw it at him. It hit him in the chest and slid to the floor with a satisfying slap.
"What is this?"
"Sign it."
He picked it up and glanced at the cover page. "Divorce papers? Elena, don't be dramatic. You can't divorce me. You depend on me."
"Read it, Jackson. It's not a request. It's a notification."
He scanned the document. His brow furrowed as the reality set in. "You want... nothing?"
"I want my name back. I want my freedom. I want you out of my life."
He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in years. He expected tears. He expected begging. He saw neither.
"Fine," he sneered. He pulled a gold pen from his pocket. "If you want to play the martyr, go ahead. You'll be crawling back in a month when the money runs out."
He signed the papers with a flourish, pressing down hard enough to nearly tear the paper.
"There," he said, tossing the papers onto the bed. "Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
He walked to the door, then paused, hand on the latch. "You know, I did love you once. But you're too intense, Elena. You suffocate people. Candida... she's easy. She lets me breathe."
"Get out," Hamilton growled, standing up to his full height.
Jackson smirked. "Take care of her, Hamilton. She's a lot of work."
He left.
The room was quiet again. I picked up the papers. His signature was jagged, ugly, and final.
"He doesn't know," Hamilton said softly. "About the miscarriage."
"He never will," I said. "He doesn't deserve to grieve a child he never wanted."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
"What are you doing?" Hamilton asked, alarm spiking in his voice.
"I'm leaving. I have a flight to catch."
"You're in no condition to travel."
"I'm not going to die here, Hamilton," I said, standing up. My legs shook, but I locked my knees, forcing my body to obey my will. "Elena Medina died in this hospital bed. The woman walking out of here is someone else entirely."
I walked to the window and looked out at the city skyline. Somewhere out there, Jackson was probably celebrating his freedom.
"I'm going to live," I whispered to the glass, watching my reflection stare back. "And I'm going to live better than he ever could."