I Stopped Waiting after the Ninth Divorce

Eloise's POV

I divorced the same man nine times.

The first eight times, I was the one sobbing, begging him not to go.

The ninth time, I was the one who slid the papers across the table.

He signed them, then told me we'd remarry once she left.

I said okay.

What he didn't know was that my flight was already booked.

This time, I was leaving for good.

My husband was still inside me, but his mind had already left.

Today was the day Genevieve flew home.

Afterward, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, hollow-eyed and far away. I sat up, opened the nightstand drawer, and placed the document I'd signed the night before flat on his chest.

"Sign it. You still need to make it to the airport."

Emmett blinked. He looked down — and when he saw the divorce papers, he pushed himself upright, something unfamiliar moving across his face. Nine divorces. The first eight, he was always the one who initiated: papers shoved in front of me without ceremony. And I would cry, or beg, or make the documents disappear — as if hiding them could buy this marriage a little more time.

This was the first time I was the one handing them over.

He stared at the page for a long moment, then reached for the pen. He signed slowly, nothing like the decisive man the world knew as Emmett Grayson.

He pushed the papers back. "Once Genevieve's gone," he said, his voice level, "we'll remarry."

"Okay." I folded them into an envelope without looking at him.

Eight divorces. Eight times he'd come back. He had never once broken that promise — nor the other one: no affairs during our marriage. Technically, he'd kept that too. Because the moment we divorced, whatever he did was his own business. That wasn't betrayal. That was a loophole. It was precisely that kind of meticulous, by-the-book fidelity that had turned me into a joke in every room we'd ever shared.

Everyone knew Emmett Grayson was in love with Genevieve. Everyone knew that I, Eloise Winters, was something he called back when he needed to, and discarded when he was done.

I crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out my suitcase.

"I'll be the one to move out." His eyes tracked me across the room, something uneasy threading into his voice.

"Don't. I already spoke to Harper. I'm staying with her."

His expression shifted at once.

"Eloise." He sat up straight. "Think carefully about what you're doing at my grandmother's. You have no one left in this world — no one except her. She's the only person who still cares about you. Are you really going to use her too?"

He remembered. Of course he did. The second divorce — I'd nearly come apart. I'd swallowed a handful of sleeping pills and collapsed on Harper's doorstep. The shock had sent the old woman straight into cardiac arrest.

The message was plain: he wanted these two weeks clean. Genevieve came so rarely. The last thing he needed was me pulling Harper into it.

After the third divorce, I had sat in my car outside Genevieve's apartment for two days — surviving on cold convenience-store rice balls, half-delirious, barely holding together. On the third morning, I finally watched them leave. I followed them to Emmett's private club and pushed open the door to his private room.

They were kissing. His hand rested easy on her shoulder. Without looking up, he said, "If only you couldn't live without me the way she can't."

The room laughed.

Then someone noticed me in the doorway.

The laughter stopped.

Emmett's expression faltered — for exactly one second. Then he reached into his jacket, laid a set of divorce papers on the table in front of everyone, and said calmly, "Eloise and I are already divorced."

I stood in that doorway and forgot how to cry.

After that, the story wrote itself: Emmett Grayson, the devoted tragic romantic. Eloise Winters, the unstable ex-wife who wouldn't let go. He was the one who loved too purely. I was the punchline.

But this time, his concern was wasted.

"I'm not going to Harper's to cause trouble," I said. My own voice surprised me — too steady, too calm, like it belonged to someone else. "I won't interfere with the two of you."

Emmett went quiet. He studied me as though he hadn't quite heard right. But he said nothing.

I took hold of my suitcase and turned toward the door.

"Genevieve's only here for two weeks." His hand closed around my wrist, his voice dropping. "Two weeks — and then we'll remarry."

I paused.

And somewhere deep inside, something small and quiet turned over. Not grief. Almost like relief.

What a coincidence.

My flight was already booked. Europe. Departure date — exactly two weeks from today.