Chapter 1: The Divorce Joke

In my last life, Michael Brennan was dying of cancer, and everyone—especially him—kept it from me.

To set me free, he started cheating, humiliated me in front of everyone, and iced me out—pushing me away with a cold, calculated cruelty that left me raw and desperate.

I couldn’t take it. The pain hollowed me out until I finally caved and agreed to the divorce.

But then his friends swooped in, acting like saints, telling me all about his secret cancer and his noble intentions. Suddenly, I was the villain in his tragedy, the selfish wife who couldn’t handle her husband’s suffering.

I crumbled. Lost myself completely. I killed myself for love—jumped from a hospital rooftop, convinced I’d failed the only person who ever mattered to me.

But after I died, Michael Brennan got his miracle. Science saved him. He lived.

I watched from the other side as he sobbed at my grave, rain running down his face, mixing with his tears.

Then, with a little help from his friends, he dusted himself off and married the woman he’d cheated with. Six months later, they threw a spring wedding. Life kept moving, with or without me.

Back to the night at that fancy Manhattan steakhouse, when Michael Brennan, surrounded by his friends, joked, "Let’s get divorced."

The steakhouse’s air was thick with the scent of seared meat and truffle oil. Candlelight glinted off half-empty wine glasses and the polished mahogany table. I didn’t get angry—I just set down my wine glass and said, calmly, "Okay."

After I said this, the scene froze in eerie silence. The soft jazz from the speakers and the clink of silverware from other tables faded to nothing at ours. Nobody breathed.

In the massive, luxurious private room—mahogany panels, crystal chandelier—I just kept my head down, eating lobster bisque. The cream was rich, the sherry perfect. I made myself taste every spoonful.

Michael Brennan’s hand, which had been resting on Nina Lawson’s waist, slowly slipped away. My stomach twisted, but I kept my face blank, gripping my spoon so hard my knuckles ached.

His handsome face, the one that had joked about falling for someone else and wanting to divorce me, went stiff. That smug confidence melted, replaced by something raw and ugly.

He clearly hadn’t planned for me to say yes. His mouth opened, then shut. Suddenly, the script had gone off the rails.

He knew how much I’d loved him—since we were eighteen, sharing umbrellas in the rain. He counted on me to react, to lose it, to make a scene. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Prove Sarah’s unstable, make the divorce look like mercy.

But I said "okay" like we were switching dinner reservations, not ending a marriage. That wasn’t in their script.

Around us, Michael’s friends—trust fund kids, startup bros, Instagram models, Wall Street types—looked at each other. Someone’s fork hovered in midair. Someone else’s champagne glass stopped at their lips.

Their whole premeditated plan to watch me snap and make a fool of myself shattered. They’d come for a show: Sarah Quinn, outsider wife, finally getting what she deserved.

Now the plot twisted out of their hands, and I could almost hear the gears grinding as they tried to recalibrate.

But I didn’t feel triumphant. There was no satisfaction, just a hollow ache where my heart used to be.

I swept my gaze over every face at that table. All the beautiful, privileged people who’d never accepted me. Michael’s world, never mine.

Finally, my eyes landed on Nina Lawson—gorgeous, perfect makeup, Cartier earrings flashing in the candlelight.

In my previous life, she was my best friend. We’d shared secrets over wine, cried at rom-coms, texted at 2 AM when we couldn’t sleep.

But I forgot—she and Michael were childhood friends, raised in the same Connecticut suburb, went to the same prep school, vacationed at the same Hamptons houses.

The more she protected me, the more righteous she sounded: "Sarah’s one of us now," she’d say, linking her arm through mine at parties.

But when it counted, her betrayal cut the deepest. I never saw it coming.

Nina’s expression turned unnatural under my gaze. A muscle twitched near her eye—barely there, but I caught it.

She looked to Michael, searching for direction. Like always.

He stared at me, jaw clenched, green eyes narrowed—the way he looked when a business deal went south. Her smile faltered for a split second.

Then she pasted on that hearty, big-sister grin and came over, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

"Come on, don’t be mad. This was all Zach’s stupid idea—we were just messing around. You know how these idiots get after a few drinks."

I stepped back, avoiding her freshly manicured hand—nude pink, always tasteful.

Without smiling, I looked straight at Michael. "But I’m not joking."

"Seriously, let’s get divorced, Mike." I used the nickname only I ever called him. Watched it land like a slap.