Eleventh Time I died, My Husband Finally Regretted

In order to be free with his mistress, my husband Jarren had tried to kill me—nine times. But each time, just before death could take me, I was saved.

The most recent time he tried to kill me was just this night. It was raining—pouring so hard I couldn’t see past my own breath. He took me out by the lake, said he needed to “talk,” and before I could ask what about, he pushed me.

I hit the freezing water, and panic clawed at my throat. He knew I didn’t know how to swim. My limbs flailed, water filled my lungs, my screams came out in bubbles. My hand found a half-submerged tree branch, and I clung to it, sobbing under the storm. I begged. Pleaded.

That was when he sent the butler—not to rescue me, but to drag me out like wet garbage.

I was left in the mud outside the mansion, shivering, coughing, burning up. No one gave me a blanket. No one even opened the door. I crawled to the entrance like an animal and pulled myself inside.

As I passed the master bedroom, I heard moaning from the other side of the door.

Jarren and Elisa. They didn’t even try to hide it anymore. Ever since she “returned”—his beloved first love—she strutted around the house like it was hers. Everyone knew. The maids. The cooks. The guards. But no one ever said anything. Because I was the wife in name only. The mistress was queen.

I leaned against the wall, dripping and trembling. They laughed between those walls while I rotted just outside them.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Five years ago, Jarren was warm. Kind, even. We met at a charity gala. I spilled wine on his suit and apologized for five minutes straight. He just smiled, handed me a napkin, and said, “You’re going to owe me ten dances for that.”

We fell hard. Fast.

He married me within a year. But three years into our marriage, Elisa came back. At first, he kept his distance. He promised me I had nothing to worry about. But then… then Elisa framed me.

She drugged my drink one night at a party and sent a stranger into my hotel room. I woke up half-dressed next to a man I didn’t know—numb, confused, and terrified.

Photos surfaced the next morning.

I swore it wasn’t what it looked like. I begged him to believe me. But he didn’t.

He looked me in the eye and said, “I never thought you’d be the kind of woman to embarrass me like this.”

Since then, he’s punished me again and again. Not with words. But with pain. He left the brakes cut on my car once—I barely survived that crash. He left rotten food in my meals. Locked me out in the winter. Starved me when Elisa said I gained weight. Each attempt subtle enough to be missed. But clear enough to be intentional.

And the worst part?

I stopped wanting to survive them.

That night, after the lake, after the betrayal, I sat on the bathroom floor, soaked and shivering, and told myself if I couldn't die from his cruelty, maybe I’d find a way on my own.

I walked into the hallway, dragging my sore body toward the medicine cabinet. My reflection looked like a stranger—pale skin, cracked lips, hollow eyes. I opened the drawer, pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills, and held them in my hand.

Just as I was about to swallow the first one, a scream cut through the silence.

“Who tracked wet water into the hall?!”

Elisa. Her voice was high-pitched and shrill—like a child throwing a tantrum. She stormed into the room like a hurricane.

Seconds later, Jarren followed, shirt unbuttoned, brows furrowed. “What the hell is this, Hayley? You ruined the floors she just cleaned. Can’t you do anything right?”

“She needs to clean it. Right now,” Elisa snapped. “And make her apologize while she’s at it.”

I stood still, the bottle still in my hand.

“Let her strip clothes,” Elisa said smugly. “Wipe it clean.”

My lips trembled. I looked at Jarren, hoping—just hoping—for a flicker of mercy.

He said nothing. So I did it. I peeled off my clothes and got on my knees, wiping the water trail with my bare hands, my vision blurring, my fever raging.

They walked away, laughing.

But I didn’t cry.

I just stood up, walked back into the hallway, and picked up the phone.

I dialed the number I’d been too afraid to call for years.

The woman on the other end answered, “Lawton Family Services. How may I help you?”

I steadied my voice.

“This is Hayley Smith,” I said. “I want to file for divorce… and completely erase my existence from this family.”