Thirty Days To Find Another Groom

In the fifth year of our marriage, Simon converted our home into a trial-marriage dormitory for his female best friend. Mallory Crane was supposed to be walking down the aisle in two months, but she claimed she had developed a crippling phobia of domestic intimacy with men. Her premarital therapist had supposedly advised an immersive desensitization period. Instead of turning to her fiancé, Mallory handpicked Simon. And Simon, with all the meticulous devotion he had never once shown me, drafted a thirty-day roadmap for their simulated domestic bliss. To ensure the simulation felt authentic, I was required to vacate the premises. No calls. No drop-ins. No claiming occupancy in the home whose mortgage I had split down the middle. When I went back to pack a suitcase, Mallory was in our kitchen, carefully affixing thirty numbered magnetic tiles across the stainless-steel refrigerator door. She turned toward the primary suite, offering me a bright, practiced smile. "Don't pack everything, Elise," she said, leaning against the counter. "I need your leftover routines to study how to take care of him properly. After all, if I can learn to sleep beside Simon without panicking, I won't be afraid of anyone I marry." Simon stood by the threshold, my hard-shell suitcase already rolling under his palm toward the hallway. "One more thing," Simon said, his tone matter-of-fact, like a doctor explaining a routine clinical procedure. "To guarantee absolute authenticity for her psychological baseline, we’re going down to the county clerk's office tomorrow to file for divorce." I pulled my handle up and stepped into the elevator. What Simon didn't know was simple: thirty days of playing house with Mallory Crane was more than enough time for me to find another groom. … Simon held the pen between long, steady fingers and signed the dissolution paperwork without a second's hesitation. The clerk behind the glass partition reminded us twice: under state law, the filing initiated a mandatory thirty-day statutory cooling-off period. Once those thirty days expired, either party could appear to finalize the decree, permanently terminating the marriage. Simon folded the confirmation receipt into a neat square, tucked it into the exterior pocket of my handbag, and looked at me with an expression that bordered on indulgence. "Keep the docket slip," he said smoothly. "Once Mallory finishes her therapy, we’ll come right back." My fingers closed over the crisp edge of the receipt. The paper was cold against my skin. "And what do we do when we come back?" He fastened the clasp of my purse, exuding the same easy confidence he always displayed whenever he convinced himself I was merely throwing a petulant tantrum. "We refile our marriage license, of course." Mallory jogged over from the waiting area, sliding her arm through his with the effortless familiarity of someone who had rehearsed the posture dozens of times. "Don't worry about a thing, Elise," she chirped, looking up into Simon’s eyes before glancing at me. "I'll take exceptional care of him. In thirty days, I’ll return him to you in mint condition." When she lifted her hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear, my chest seized. Gleaming against her ring finger was a slender silver band. Five years ago, after Simon canceled our first anniversary trip at the eleventh hour, I bought that plain silver band for myself as a solitary consolation. I had never brought myself to wear it; I kept it buried in the velvet lining at the very back of my nightstand drawer. Simon offered a careless half-shrug. "She needed a band to anchor the psychological state. I let her borrow it." A dull, razor-thin ache sliced straight through the center of my ribs. It wasn’t a lethal blow, but it spread outward in a stinging, suffocating heat. Without a word, I unzipped my bag, pulled out my brass key ring, and dropped the front door key into Simon's open palm. The metal struck his skin with a faint clink. His brow instantly furrowed. "It's just an administrative waiting period, Elise. Don't be dramatic." Outside, the midday glare off the courthouse steps was blinding. I walked down to the sidewalk, took out my phone, and snapped a photo of the divorce filing receipt. I sent it to a number saved deep in my contacts. The reply took nearly two minutes to come through. "Thirty days from today, I’ll be there. If you change your mind between now and then, you don't owe me an explanation." My thumbs flew across the screen: "Don't worry. I won't change my mind." Before I could slide my phone back into my pocket, a chime alerted me that Simon had added me to a shared thread labeled: "30-Day Domestic Simulation Observation Group." The pinned rules at the top were explicit: "The departing spouse is classified as an emotional disruptor. She is strictly barred from contacting the trial husband, viewing bedroom security feeds, or using jealousy, insomnia, or illness as a pretext to interrupt the therapeutic trial." A second later, Mallory uploaded an elaborate spreadsheet. "Shared meals; household budgeting; hosting both sets of parents; conflict resolution simulations." And for the final seven days: "Honeymoon travel and physical intimacy desensitization." Beside every single milestone, two designations were stamped in bold: "Trial Wife: Mallory Crane." "Trial Husband: Simon Bradford." Five years ago, during our newlywed months, I had pleaded with Simon to sit down and sketch out a shared bucket list for our marriage. He had balled the paper up and tossed it into the recycling bin, muttering that marriage wasn't an elementary school homework assignment. The road trips, the formal ceremony, the anniversary portraits he swore we’d get around to—none of them ever materialized. Yet Mallory had merely whispered that she was anxious, and Simon had gone so far as to highlight in red ink the exact number of minutes he should hold her if she woke with night terrors. I tapped out of the group, deleted the notification, and drove across town to the modest prewar apartment my late mother had left me. No one had lived here in over a year. A fine veil of dust coated the windowsills. I dropped my solitary suitcase on the parquet floor and popped the latches. Inside were half a dozen changes of clothes; my everyday credit cards and joint checkbooks were still sitting on the entryway console back at the townhouse. That night, Mallory sent a photo to the group. She was sitting on the edge of my king-sized mattress, draped in my ivory silk robe. Her left hand, bearing my silver anniversary band, rested casually on Simon’s waist while he buttoned up a fresh cotton shirt. "Lesson One: Allowing the husband to assess whether the wife's sleepwear fits properly," her caption read. "Simon said your measurements are basically identical to mine, so I didn't bother buying new ones!" Simon’s message followed three seconds later. "Just documentation for the clinic. Don't read into it. If the apartment lacks anything, text my assistant." I locked my screen, laid the phone facedown, and tucked the courthouse docket slip into the top desk drawer. Beneath the slip rested an archived transcript from six years ago. In those true logs, Gideon Ross had never once placed a wager on pursuing me. He had never joked about me with his fraternity brothers or treated me like an conquest. Yet six years ago, Mallory had brought me doctored screenshots, painting Gideon as a callous heir who had bragged he could bed me within ninety days on a dare. Back then, young and fragile, I had believed her. And in doing so, I walked away from the one man whose intentions had been entirely pure. I picked up the phone again and dialed Gideon’s private line. "Mr. Ross," I said softly when the line clicked open. "Are you still interested in getting married?" ... On the seventh day of their simulation, the secondary card linked to our joint account was declined at the grocery store. The bank alert flashed on my phone at the exact moment Mallory shared a receipt in the group chat. Using my secondary account, she had purchased three sets of 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, two bottles of Tom Ford cologne for Simon, and a pair of matching Rimowa trunks. Her caption: "A good wife must master household financial logistics." Simon had given the post a thumbs-up. I called customer service. The representative politely informed me that Simon had revoked my secondary privileges that morning and issued an identical authorized card in Mallory Crane’s name. For five years, every single dollar of that household had run through my hands. I curated the monthly wellness parcels for Simon's mother; I sourced the vintage scotches for his corporate dinners; I even selected the bespoke birthday gifts Simon presented to Mallory every October. Now that I had been cast out of my own home, it took Simon less than five minutes to reassign my identity to someone else. After hanging up, I sat motionless on the sofa while the afternoon light faded from the room. My fingers were ice-cold. Being replaced wasn't an ambiguous sensation. It was a cold, administrative fact. The following morning, I retained an estate attorney, printed an inventory of my non-marital assets, and went back to the townhouse to retrieve what was mine. I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner at the front door. The deadbolt flashed crimson and beeped twice in rejection. Even though I had spent the last week severing my attachments, that red light felt like a slap across the cheek. To stand locked out of a home I had curated down to the baseboards was a humiliation that burned deep in my throat. Mallory let the intercom chime three times before casually unlatching the door. She was wearing a thick, milky-white jade bangle around her wrist. It was my mother's heirloom. The only significant dowry my mother had left me before she passed, kept under lock and key inside the master closet safe. "Doesn't it catch the light beautifully?" Mallory asked, tilting her wrist so the jade gleamed against her skin. "Today’s module is managing the husband’s family vault. Simon told me to pick whatever caught my eye." I stepped forward and reached for the bangle. Mallory instantly flinched and retreated behind Simon, who had just stepped out of the study. The jade struck the steel casing of his watch with a sharp, sickening "clack". "That belongs to my mother," I said, my voice trembling. Simon instinctively caught Mallory’s wrist, inspecting the stone for fractures before he even looked at me. "She didn't know, Elise. Don't lunge at people like that. If you shatter it, you’ll just throw another fit." I froze, the room tilting around me. That was my mother’s legacy. Yet in Simon’s eyes, the primary catastrophe wasn’t that another woman had raided my safe; it was that Mallory might be startled, or that my reach might damage the stone. Mallory peeked out from behind his shoulder, her eyes wide with performative innocence. "Elise, your mother has been gone for years. It's not like she can see me wearing it. I’m only borrowing it for the module. I'll give it back when my trial run is over." My hands curled into tight fists, fingernails cutting into my palms until the pain anchored me. My attorney stepped forward, handing Simon the formal schedule of separate property, demanding the immediate surrender of my jewelry, family records, and vital documents. Simon barely glanced at the paper before slapping it down on the console table. "Today’s exercise is joint wealth management. If you clean out the safe right now, Mallory will think I don't trust her in a marital role." "She has no right to touch my things." Mallory’s lower lip quivered. She reached up to slide the bangle off, murmuring, "It's fine, Simon, I'll take it off..." Simon caught her hand, his fingers firm over hers, before turning on me with visible irritation. "It's a piece of jewelry, Elise. When did you become so petty and vindictive?" A terrible, hollow laugh caught in my chest. The old Elise would have retreated. The old Elise would have apologized for creating friction, desperate not to disappoint him, terrified of making a scene before Mallory shed a single tear. I instructed the attorney to add an addendum to the record: "The heirloom white jade bangle is currently held in the unauthorized possession of Mallory Crane, with Simon Bradford serving as guarantor for its undamaged return." Simon’s face darkened when he read the word "possession". "Do you really have to use such ugly legal jargon when a friend is just trying to heal?" I didn't bother answering. In his mind, cruelty was only cruelty when it lacked an excuse he approved of. I retrieved my birth certificate, passport, and vehicle title, photographing the remaining contents of the safe before having my lawyer seal the compartment. As I turned toward the foyer, Mallory called out, gesturing toward two matching white Rimowa suitcases beside the door. "Simon said during the final week, he's taking me to that resort in Maui—the one you two always talked about. Which suitcase looks more like something a real bride would carry?" The tags dangling from the handles displayed the transaction alert from my canceled card. Simon lingered behind her, offering an afterthought of a reassurance: "It's just to check off the honeymoon desensitization box. Once she’s finished, I'll take you there on our own trip." He had made that exact promise every time he had canceled our anniversaries. I pulled out my duplicate bank card, took the shears from the entryway mail station, and snapped the plastic cleanly in half. I dropped the pieces onto the marble console. "Keep it," I said, my voice entirely flat. "The card, the island, the role of his wife. Keep practicing until you're satisfied." Before the door clicked shut, I saw Mallory raise her wrist toward her phone camera, flashing a peace sign with my mother's bangle catching the midday sun. That evening, she posted the clip online, subtitling me as the "bitter ex-wife dropping in unannounced." When comments rolled in praising Simon for being the ultimate supportive partner, Mallory replied instantly: "Trial husband gets an A+. Ex-wives just ruin the vibe." Sitting on the worn sofa in my mother's apartment, scrolling through the comments, I didn't shed a tear. The heart doesn't snap all at once. It erodes. It dies an inch at a time, through every substitution, every casual indignity, until the final flicker of hope simply runs out of air. ... On the fifteenth day of the simulation, the Bradford family hosted a full-dress wedding rehearsal for Mallory. The venue was the grand ballroom of the St. Regis—the exact hotel where Simon and I were supposed to have been married five years ago. When I saw the address on the summons, my breath caught for half a second. Five years ago, on the eve of our wedding, Mallory had gotten incoherently drunk at a downtown lounge, sobbing into Simon's collar that her closest companion was abandoning her for good. Simon had stayed by her side in that hotel suite until sunrise. The next morning, he called me and asked to postpone the ceremony, claiming it would be barbaric to celebrate while his dearest friend was on the brink of an emotional collapse. I had been sitting in the bridal suite, my veil half-pinned into my hair. I listened to his exhausted, gravelly voice over the receiver, swallowed the bile rising in my throat, and whispered, "Okay." We never rescheduled. Now, the ballroom was draped in cascades of white hydrangeas. Simon stood on the dais in a custom black tuxedo. Mallory stood beside him, clutching his arm, wearing the bespoke ivory silk-crepe gown I had ordered from Paris five years ago. She had reserved a seat for me at the front. The silver place card read: "Former Spouse Observation Seat." I had only come so Simon’s attorney could hand over the executed property separation agreement. Yet Mallory gathered the skirts of my wedding gown and glided down the steps toward me, executing a slow, triumphant spin. "This gown sat in a garment bag for five years, Elise. It would have been a sin to let it rot," she said, her voice lilting. "You’re a little more slender than I am, so the waist was slightly loose. Simon had to cinch it for me with a silver clip." She turned around. Pinned neatly to the back of the gown was Simon’s silver monogrammed tie bar. I recognized it instantly. After our wedding was called off, I had wrapped that tie bar in tissue paper and stored it alongside the dress, convincing myself that one day, we would finally stand before an altar and make it right. Now it was cinched against the small of another woman's back. A public, deliberate dismantling of every memory I had protected. Eleanor Bradford, Simon’s mother, waved to Mallory from the stage. "Mallory, darling, come back up here! Don't waste your breath on irrelevant spectators. Today, you are the Bradford family bride." The blood drained from my face until my lips felt numb. It wasn't just Mallory who had crossed the line. The entire family had agreed that I was disposable. The guests broke into light laughter. Several family acquaintances approached me with champagne flutes, murmuring that I ought to be more enlightened—that lending a husband for thirty days was the ultimate test of a man’s fidelity, and that I should thank Mallory for taking him for a spin. Their voices felt like static buzzing in my ears. They had dragged my dignity and five years of my devotion onto a stage to be evaluated like a sideshow. Simon stepped down from the platform, taking the portfolio from my lawyer. The terms were clean: he retained the townhouse and his corporate equity; I walked away with my mother's prewar apartment, my personal jewelry, and the savings accounts established in my name prior to the marriage. He flipped to the signature block, his jaw tight. "You’re not even contesting company stock? You really intend to drag this charade out to the bitter end, don't you?" "Sign it," I said, meeting his gaze. "Then you can get back to your rehearsal." Mallory hovered at his elbow, her veil brushing the documents. "Elise is just playing chess, Simon. She knows the stock is your lifeblood. By acting noble and leaving it alone, she thinks you’ll feel guilty and shower her with affection later." She looked up at him, smiling. "Sign it. In fifteen days, when she shows up with the final divorce papers, you can reward her with a fat trust fund. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?" Simon stared at me for three long seconds, then dragged his pen across the paper. The coordinator called out for the bride and groom to exchange the rehearsal bands. Mallory pulled him toward the dais, then thrust a glass of vintage champagne into my hand. "Even a mock divorce needs ceremony," Mallory whispered. "Offer your trial successors a toast, ex-wife." The liquid sloshed near the rim. I set the flute down onto a passing waiter's silver tray. Just then, my phone illuminated on the table. A text from Gideon Ross’s executive assistant: "The appointment for your marriage registration in fifteen days is confirmed with the county registry." Simon’s eyes caught the surname on the preview banner. His grip on the pen tightened until his knuckles went white. Mallory burst out laughing. "Gideon Ross? Elise, please. He chased you six years ago, and you wouldn't even let him buy you a cup of coffee. Parading his name now just to get a rise out of Simon? If the Ross family catches wind of this, they'll bury you." The cloud of suspicion over Simon’s face vanished, replaced by an easy, dismissive smirk. "Gideon Ross has the pick of Manhattan," Simon said, his tone dripping with condescension. "Why would he marry a freshly divorced woman he hasn't spoken to in half a decade?" He plucked the phone from my fingers and dialed Gideon’s direct line. The line rang. Five times. Six times. No answer. Simon slid the phone back into my palm, leaned down, and smoothed the lapel of my coat where Mallory had brushed against it. "Drop the amateur dramatics, Elise. The Ross family isn't a prop you can use in a marital spat." I looked up into his handsome, untroubled face, and whatever lingering hurt was left in me simply vanished. In the past, whenever he displayed that absolute, arrogant certainty, I would scramble to explain myself. I would plead for his trust. Now, all I felt was an overwhelming, clinical absurdity. Even now, he genuinely could not fathom that I was walking away for good. The organ music swelled through the ballroom speakers. Mallory looped her arm through his, pulling him back toward the altar. As she passed me, she leaned in, her perfume thick and sickly sweet. "He didn't choose you six years ago," Mallory murmured, "and he won't choose you now. The best man you were ever qualified to marry is currently mine on loan." I stared at the silver tie clip pinned at her waist. My fingers remained motionless at my sides. Six years ago, she was the one who handed me the forged texts, telling me to protect myself from Gideon. And the true, uncorrupted chat logs? Gideon had handed them to me himself the week he returned to the States. I had never been unwanted. I had simply been blind. ... Late on the twenty-second night, a short video clip was uploaded to the group chat. In the glow of the sunset on a secluded Maui beach, Mallory stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Simon’s mouth. Simon’s hands rested on her bare shoulders. He didn't pull away immediately. He hesitated. For three, four, five seconds, his fingers lingered against her skin before he gently pushed her back. Those five seconds of hesitation were enough to grind the last five years of my devotion into fine, unrecognizable ash. I watched those five seconds on a loop in the darkness of my mother's bedroom. A single, quiet tear escaped and tracked down my cheek. It wasn't that he couldn't pull away. It was that deep down, he had never truly wanted to. Behind the lens, the videographer’s voice broke the silence: "Hey, guys, physical kissing wasn't on the protocol schedule." Mallory covered her face, feigning tears, stammering that she had just been so terrified of failing her therapy, so desperate to prove that kissing a man wouldn't make her nauseous. Simon stepped in front of the lens, his broad frame blocking the shot. "Cut the tape. She’s emotionally overwhelmed. Stop filming." His retreating back, shielding her from the world, was a mirror image of the night before our wedding five years ago. He had left me stranded in a white dress back then to comfort a weeping Mallory. And he was doing it again now. I forwarded the video file and the high-resolution photographs of my mother’s jade bangle to my attorney, then booked a car service for the courthouse the following morning. I didn't cry again. When the pain reaches its absolute threshold, the hysteria simply stops. What replaces it is an eerie, crystalline wakefulness. ... At three o'clock the following afternoon, Simon arrived at my mother's apartment carrying a digital voice recorder. Mallory, he explained, required three formal stipulations before she would allow us to proceed with our remarriage: First, I was never to interrogate Simon regarding the sleeping arrangements during the thirty-day trial. Second, I was forbidden from asking him to block or delete her contact information. Third, if she experienced marital anxiety in her upcoming marriage, I could not interfere with her seeking Simon's emotional support, and our guest suite must be permanently reserved for her use. Simon clicked the red record button and set the device on the scratched wooden dining table before me. "Mallory is terrified that the second this therapeutic trial ends, you'll force me to cut her off," Simon said reasonably. "Record the assurances, Elise. It's the only way she can vacate the townhouse with peace of mind tonight." I looked at the little red light blinking on the machine. The sheer absurdity was almost magnificent. Even at this juncture, he still believed I was waiting by the door, desperate to reclaim my title. Cardboard boxes lined the baseboards of the living room; I hadn't even finished wiping the dust off my mother’s silver-framed portrait. Simon surveyed the modest space, his lips curling with mild distaste, treating this sanctuary like an uncomfortable motel room I was using to pout in. "Once we're back home, we'll hire an interior designer to redo the master suite," he said, checking his watch. "Sell this place. You can use the cash to buy yourself some new jewelry." I raised my eyes to his. The very last ember of warmth in my chest went entirely cold. He had already mapped out our reconciliation. He had calculated the terms of my forgiveness, the price of my compliance, the decorative budget for my silence. He had never once asked if I wanted to come back. I reached out, pressed the stop button on the recorder, and slid it beneath the folder containing our separation documents. "We'll settle everything tomorrow at the clerk's office." Simon’s shoulders visibly relaxed. A self-satisfied smile touched his lips; he assumed I had finally surrendered to reason. Before stepping out, he placed a velvet box from Harry Winston on the console. Inside lay a brilliant-cut diamond solitaire—a replacement band for the remarriage. My mother’s jade bangle was nowhere to be seen; it remained on Mallory’s wrist. "Since Mallory wore your old silver band, I figured you'd want a clean slate," Simon said casually, resting his hand on the doorknob. "If it bothered you that she touched it, this one cost three times as much." The heavy oak door shut behind him. The velvet box sat under the dim hallway bulb, radiating a sterile, expensive gleam. He had lived with me for half a decade, and he still didn't understand: my grief had never been about the price tag. ... On the evening of the thirtieth day, Simon sent a picture of our refrigerator. All thirty magnetic tiles had been flipped from amber to forest green. The final tile was printed with bold block letters: "Divorce Crisis Successfully Resolved." "Tomorrow morning. 10:00 AM for the final decree. 10:30 AM to file the new marriage license," his text read. "Bring your passport and the new ring." I replied with a single line: "Confirmed for 10:00 AM." The next morning, Simon was already waiting in the marble atrium of the municipal building, a fresh marriage application tucked neatly under his arm. Mallory had accompanied him. She was still wearing my mother's white jade bangle alongside my silver band, and pinned over her lapel was a whimsical silver badge that read: "Certified Domestic Trainee." At precisely ten o'clock, our names were called. The clerk processed the docket and slid two stamped copies of the final divorce decree through the glass window. Simon didn't even open his copy. He immediately pushed the new marriage license application forward onto the marble counter. "We'd like to proceed with the registration." The clerk adjusted her spectacles, cross-referenced the computer monitor, and pointed toward the opposite wing of the hall. "I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Beckett’s next appointment is in Marriage Bureau Room B. And her partner of record is not you." Simon’s hand froze against the glass. For the first time in the seven years I had known him, the smooth, unshakeable composure on his face shattered into raw, bewildered shock. A hush fell over the vaulted marble corridor. Footsteps echoed against the terrazzo floor. Gideon Ross walked through the double doors, flanked only by his senior legal counsel. His first public appearance following his return from London was supposed to have been the Ross Holdings annual shareholder summit across town. Instead, he was standing in the public records bureau, his tailored charcoal overcoat unbuttoned, his dark eyes fixed entirely on me. The practiced, smug smile on Mallory’s face cracked into pieces. Simon spun around, his chest heaving, his voice strained and cracking at the edges. "Gideon? She's been parading your name around for two weeks to spite me. You don't actually have to play along with this ridiculous performance." Even now, he thought my life was an elaborate production staged solely for his attention. Gideon stopped two paces before me. He didn't look at Simon, and he didn't spare Mallory a single glance. He reached into his coat, drew out a pristine folder of civil documents, and presented them to me with quiet reverence. "Six years ago, I asked for your hand, and you said no," Gideon said, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely steady. "Today is the very first time you’ve said yes." He didn't press me. He stepped aside, leaving a clear, unobstructed path between me and the exit. "Elise," he added softly, "if you want to walk away right now, you are completely free to do so." I took the folder from his hands, met his gaze, and stepped through the threshold of Room B. Simon lunged forward, catching my wrist in a vice-like grip. The remarriage application crumpled violently within his fist. "A divorced woman? Five years of history with me?" Simon hissed, his composure entirely gone, his eyes wild with fury. "You think the Ross family is actually going to welcome you into their dynasty? Don't throw your entire future away just to prove a point to me!" His fingers dug into my wrist until the bone throbbed with pain. Yet looking into his contorted face, my pulse didn't even accelerate. Because compared to the agonizing slow-bleed of the last thirty days, this physical grip was nothing. Gideon’s gaze shifted downward, landing coldly on the hand Simon had wrapped around my arm. Before Gideon could speak, two courthouse security officers moved forward, physically inserting themselves between us and forcing Simon's fingers off my skin. Inside the registry room, the civil officer took our files. A camera flashed. The mechanical seal descended with a heavy, definitive "thud". Two navy-blue embossed marriage certificates were slid across the desk toward Gideon and me. Outside the glass partition, the crumpled paper slip bearing Simon’s remarriage reservation slipped from his numb fingers and fluttered to the floor. It was only then, staring at the golden state seal across our names, that Simon finally realized: My divorce from him was absolute. And Gideon Ross had taken me as his wife.