The 100th Time's the Charm

Day after our wedding, Donna had cried about how stressful work was. So I offered her $600K a year, no strings.

By day three, she slapped a divorce agreement on the table.

"Hector, your money's an insult. Might as well just sign this now. You can add your name whenever."

She signed it fast, like she was canceling a subscription.

I freaked. Begged. Apologized. Even slapped myself like a total mess.

While I was spiraling—literally clawing at my scalp—she smacked me a few times through her own tears... then smiled.

"Alright, I'll forgive you."

After that, I walked on eggshells. She said she wanted her own business, so I quietly pumped money into it.

Now she thinks she's made it—boss girl vibes or whatever—and suddenly I'm just some "low-class rich guy" to her.

Since January, she's been tossing around the D-word like confetti. Ninety-nine times in six months.

Staring at that latest divorce text, all I could think about was the $500K she sent him every year, those two months she ghosted, my missing stuff, and that divorce paper she signed eight years ago...

Yeah. Cold chill straight down my spine.

She was hiding way too much.

I was about to shut off my phone when a call came through—Donna.

Background noise was wild, like some drunk party game in a bar. Probably a butt dial.

"Donna and Alec, drink from the same glass!"

"Kiss!"

"Carry her like a princess! Lock them in the dark room—don't come out for an hour! Hope you two finally make your dream come true!"

Then some random girl chimed in, all snarky:

"Who's 1874? Some insurance guy? Ugh, hang up."

Click. End of call.

Pain punched me in the chest. She saved me as '1874'—just the last four digits of my number.

Meanwhile, my phone screen still flashed "Sweetheart."

God, what a joke.

I had work to finish, thought about staying late—but I couldn't focus. So I headed home.

Walked in, couldn't find my slippers. Ended up dragging my dress shoes to the couch.

Then I looked around.

Everything I owned? Gone.

I was still standing there, confused, when Donna walked out of the bedroom and froze.

Last week, she'd hit me with:

"Being with a jobless guy like you is exhausting. I need a husband who actually supports my career. And you? You party all day, then come home to fold laundry and play chef. Can't you just get a REAL job and try for once?"

When I told her I was the CEO of Leandro Corp, she laughed.

"Please. Not even in your dreams. You're lazy. One day you'll blow through your money, and in a few years, you'll be living off ME."

She'd seen me in VIP rooms too many times—probably thought I was just some lucky loser who hit the jackpot once and was riding the wave till it crashed.

And the $600K a year?

"You gave it willingly," she said. "Starting this year, keep it. If you're gonna hold it over my head forever, I'd rather just give it back."

Then she straight-up kicked me out.

"Go stay somewhere else for a week. I need some peace."