A Goodbye Without a Period Chapter 1

The day the pork stamp was pressed against my cheek, I was reborn.

It was a joke, a little prank from Lucas’s young secretary during what was meant to be our seventh-anniversary dinner. She was pouring me a glass of wine when she did it, laughing as the greasy, purple ink branded my skin.

This time, I didn’t slap her like I did in my last life.

And I didn’t scream at Lucas like a madwoman, demanding a divorce when he rushed to her defense.

Instead, I just smiled at him, a calm, serene little smile.

“She’s really something, isn’t she? You two have fun.” I picked up my purse. “Let’s just consider our anniversary celebration officially over. I’m heading home.”

I walked out of that private dining room without a backward glance.

What else could I do? The last time I divorced Lucas, my life became a living hell. He crushed me with the same ruthless precision he used on his business rivals, holding onto every asset with a death grip. I consulted every lawyer in the city and walked away with a grand total of forty-eight dollars.

Right after the divorce, I was diagnosed with cancer.

When the pain became unbearable, I swallowed my pride and went to him, kneeling at his feet. But he just stood there, letting his new secretary slap me three times across the face before turning me away without a single cent.

Broke and alone, I froze to death on the doorstep of the house we had shared for seven years.

So no, dignity is not more important than life.

* * *

I didn't expect him to follow me out.

He grabbed my arm, his grip tight. "Sophie, let me explain. Jenna is just young and playful. She thought the pork stamp would be a funny way to break the ice."

"She doesn't have a mean bone in her body," he continued, his voice softening. "We grew up together. She’s always been a little mischief-maker, and since you’re my wife, she probably just got a little too comfortable and forgot her boundaries. Don't be angry with her."

He’d said the exact same thing in my last life.

Back then, humiliated and shaking with rage, his gentle defense of another woman had been the final straw. In front of all our friends, I had slapped him across the face, screamed the word "divorce," and stormed out.

I was so naive then, thinking the threat of leaving him actually meant something.

I walked the streets for four hours in a cold, miserable winter drizzle, tears streaming down my face. My heels rubbed my ankles raw until they bled. I caught a fever that spiked to 104 degrees.

And as I lay in our bed, shivering and sick, Lucas never called. He didn't even try to find me. Instead, he and Jenna flew to Europe on a business trip that very night. Pictures of him adjusting the strap of her cocktail dress, of her leaning in to kiss his cheek, were all over his company’s gossip forums.

The memory was so bitterly ironic that a small, mocking smile touched my lips.

That smile seemed to snap something in him. He suddenly shoved my hand away, his voice sharp with anger. "How many times do I have to tell you? Jenna is the daughter of my dad's old friend. I'm just looking out for her."

"It was a stupid pork stamp. Go home and wash it off. Can you stop being so ridiculously jealous and making up stories about us in your head?"

The sudden fury on his face sent a familiar ache through my chest. But the pain wasn't for him. It was for the woman I used to be.

In my last life, I had pancreatic cancer, one of the most agonizing forms of the disease. My days were a blur of nurses jabbing me with long needles, leaving me a sniffling, tear-streaked mess. At night, I would curl into a ball on the floor, clutching my stomach, sobbing and praying for a quick death. When I ran out of money, I’d take a fruit knife and cut into my own emaciated flesh, just hoping the new pain would offer a moment's distraction, a chance for a full night's sleep.

Even then, even in that state, I couldn't bring myself to sell our wedding rings for another dose of painkillers.

When the doctor told me I had a month to live, I dragged my skeletal frame to his house, planning to beg him to take me back. He had sworn, after my parents died, that he would take care of me for the rest of my life.

I finally found my way back to the home we’d shared for seven years. I had to kneel and beg the security guard just to get him to call Lucas for me.

When he answered, I barely managed to whisper his name before he cut me off, his voice flat and cold. "Sophie, we're divorced. That means we have nothing to do with each other anymore. Whatever is happening in your life, don't call me again."

He hung up.

I collapsed in the backyard of that sprawling mansion. In the final moments of my life, as my vision faded, I saw him through the window. He was holding Jenna, laughing in the home I had so carefully decorated, drinking from the wine glasses I had chosen, sharing a sweet, intimate kiss.

The memory was a suffocating weight. I pushed it down, forcing the smile back onto my face.

"Lucas, I'm really not jealous. And I'm not mad at Jenna," I said, my voice even. "I'm just tired and I want to go home. You should go back inside."

Surprise flickered across his face. While he was still processing my words, I turned and walked away without another glance.