The 100th Time's the Charm

Eight years married, and my wife? She asked for a divorce 99 times.

I thought it was just her usual drama—testing me.

Then I found out she'd been wiring half a million every year to some dude. Always with the same note: ILU.

When she hit me with divorce number 100, I finally signed. I pulled my money out of her little passion project and ghosted—moved my company overseas, wiped my tracks clean.

Now she's out there losing her mind, trying to find me.

For eight years, I quietly funneled cash into Donna Marina's wedding business, no questions asked. Two days left on our contract, and I'm white-knuckling it, wondering if I should keep the money flowing.

She's asked for a divorce ninety-nine times. Ninety-nine. And I was dumb enough to think it was because I worked too much, because I wasn't around.

Turns out? Nah. She's been wiring $500K a year—every year—to some guy named Alec Humbert. Slapped an "ILU" on every transfer.

Guess who Alec is? Fresh meat at my company. HR flagged him during his background check.

Felt like someone dropped a brick on my chest. I gave Donna $600K a year to do whatever. Never thought she'd hand most of it to another guy.

My assistant handed me a video. In it, some investigator grilled Alec about the mystery money sender. Alec flashed this awkward little grin.

"A female friend," he said.

The guy lit up, instantly nosy. "She into you? Gonna say yes? Marry her or what?"

Alec ducked it and went off on a humblebrag instead.

"I've been overseas the past few years. Every July and December, she'd fly in, stay a month. Always brought stuff—fancy watches, ties, cologne..."

Felt like my chest caved in. Couldn't breathe.

Every July and December, Donna jetted off "to clear her head." Wouldn't let me tag along, wouldn't answer my calls.

I chalked it up to stress and sucked it up, missing her like an idiot.

Now I know the truth—she was with him.

And that watch Alec had on in the video? Pretty sure it was mine. The one I thought I lost.

Funny thing—every time Donna traveled, something of mine vanished. A suit. A tie. A bottle of cologne.

I figured I was just love-sick and scatterbrained after she left.

I even wrote her letters every day, made her favorite chocolates, taught myself to cook—just to survive those empty months.

Turns out, I wasn't forgetful. She was playing Santa. With my stuff. For him.

Then Donna hit me with another message:

[Let's get a divorce. My wedding biz is blowing up. I'm too busy to waste time on this relationship.]

Divorce request number 100.