Dying to Escape My Toxic Marriage

Carter and I were a couple bound by mutual hatred. He skipped out on our wedding ceremony, utterly humiliating me. In return, I brought the paparazzi to his hotel suite to expose his affair with an award-winning actress. On the night the tabloids ran wild with rumors that she was about to replace me as his wife, Carter shoved me down onto our bed. His face was cold as ice, and his voice dripped with raw, bone-deep venom. "Chloe, we are in this until the day we die!" Later, when I was actually dying, Carter completely lost his mind, his hair turning snow-white overnight. The charity gala hosted by the Vance Corporation was packed with high-society elites and blinding glamour. The champagne tower shimmered beneath the crystal chandeliers. Taking a slow sip of my chardonnay, I leaned lazily against the balcony railing, watching Carter make out with a woman down below. The wet, desperate sounds drifted up. Carter kissed her with intense passion, his usually aloof face flushed with unrestrained lust. After watching him, I shifted my gaze to the girl locked in his arms. It was still the same one from three years ago. The newly crowned Best Actress seemed to sense someone watching. She quietly lifted her head and looked straight up at the balcony. A flash of sheer panic broke across her gorgeous face. She grabbed Carter’s hand, which had already slid under her designer gown and was wandering further south, whimpering softly with pleading eyes to warn him. When Carter glanced up, I lifted my wineglass toward him, the corners of my mouth curling into a smirk. I silently mouthed a helpful reminder: "Watch your public image!" Carter’s brow furrowed. From just a few feet away on the terrace, I could clearly read his lips. Merciless as always. He mouthed: "Get lost." I’ve always hated rude people. Pressing my lips together, I dumped the rest of my chardonnay over the railing. Unsurprisingly, an angry roar immediately echoed from below. He ground out my name through gritted teeth. "Chloe Scott!" I set the empty glass on a side table and leaned over to look down. Carter’s suit was soaked down the front, dripping with wine. His dark, fathomless eyes glared up at me with murderous fury. Oh, look at that! What a pitiful sight—he looked just like a drowned dog caught in a downpour. I arched a brow and let out a delighted little chuckle. Half an hour later. The seething man had changed into a tailored silver-gray suit. Arm in arm, we stood together in the main ballroom. We calmly answered questions from the press. After running through the details of the charity auction, a reporter brought up last week’s gossip. "Mr. Vance, someone took photos of you shopping for a diamond ring with a mystery beauty last week. Does this mean your marriage to Chloe Scott is on the rocks?" Three years of marriage, and Carter and I despised every breath the other took. For every girl he entertained on the side, I called the paparazzi to blast his infidelity on the front page. Countless tabloids had run headlines predicting the collapse of the Vance-Scott union. Over the years, so many people had asked Carter whether he would ever pull the plug and divorce me. His answer never changed. "There is no trouble in paradise, and we will not be divorcing." Carter’s voice was firm and resolute. Leaving that single sentence behind, he took my hand and led me out of the ballroom. Our skin brushed together, warm against warm. The second we were out of the cameras' sight, Carter violently shook off my hand. With a grim scowl, he strode toward the back of his black Maybach. I quietly pulled open the opposite door. I stared at the road, the trees, the sky—anything to avoid looking at him. Carter, however, had zero self-awareness. He sneered. "Haven't you had enough of your little games, Chloe?" "Did you really think splashing gossip in the tabloids would let you control the narrative and force a divorce?" He tugged off his black bowtie and rolled it in his palm, his sharp eyes practically dripping with disdain. "Keep dreaming."Over the years, whenever I was bored, I leaked plenty of tips about Carter’s dirty laundry to the press. A few times, I even personally led reporters to ambushes on his dates. The most explosive stunt happened three years ago, right on our wedding day. It was supposed to be the moment we took the stage together, exchanging vows and sweet nothings under the adoring eyes of our guests. Instead, Carter vanished without a word, leaving me standing alone on the altar, staring blankly at the ring bearer. Bathed in the heavy, suffocating pity of the crowd, I ripped off my veil. I marched right up to the press photographers frantically snapping shots, and calmly said: "There's a much hotter story waiting. Who wants it?" I led a swarm of reporters straight to a luxury downtown hotel, knocking on the suite door disguised as room service. The door opened, revealing the newly famous starlet, Alyssa Young. Known for her sultry bombshell persona on the big screen, she was wearing a simple, pure-white sundress. Her heavy eye makeup was gone, her long lashes naturally lifting, making her look strikingly innocent. Staring down the barrels of the cameras suddenly aimed right at her, she seemed completely stunned. Her fingers froze on the handle, her lashes fluttering helplessly. It wasn't until Carter stepped out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist that the cameras went crazy, capturing the two of them in undeniable intimacy. Only then did Alyssa let out a terrified gasp, frantically trying to slam the door shut. After watching her little performance, I shoved the door open, ignoring Carter’s thunderous glare. Amid the non-stop clicking of shutters, I grabbed Alyssa by the collar. "Miss Young," I announced clearly, "Carter Vance is my legally wedded husband. Sneaking around behind closed doors with him is called having an affair." The cameras immediately swiveled to focus on Alyssa and me. Staring into those gaping black lenses, I felt like a host on a primetime legal special. Just as I was debating whether to throw in a catchy anti-cheating slogan, Carter roughly shoved my hand away from Alyssa. He hit me with so much force that I stumbled backward. When I looked up, Alyssa was already tucked safely behind his back. "Chloe, what the hell is wrong with you?" My brand-new husband had ditched our wedding to hook up with a mistress in a hotel, and he had the nerve to ask what was wrong with me. Hilarious. I actually let out a dry, startled laugh. Watching his impatience curdle into pure irritation, I adjusted my footing, wound back my arm, and slapped him across the face. A sharp, deafening crack echoed down the hallway. The entire corridor instantly went dead silent. Carter’s head snapped to the side, his dark eyes wide with total disbelief. His face turned completely white. As he reached up to wipe a smear of blood from the corner of his split lip, I spun on my heel and bolted down the hall before he could rip me apart. By that evening, the media was saturated with stories about the rising movie star acting as a home-wrecker. Headlines like [Vance-Scott Union Crumbles: Starlet Poised to Take the Ring] blew up on every platform, trending relentlessly on Ins and Twitter. My phone rang off the hook until the battery nearly fried. Sitting curled up on my sofa through the relentless buzzing, I watched the evening news, bursting into giggles at the sight of Carter’s swollen cheek. Thanks to his pale complexion, that red handprint stood out beautifully. It was probably one of the few truly humiliating moments of his pampered life. Caught red-handed cheating in a hotel room, and immortalized on live TV getting slapped silly by his bride... He’d probably need to book a therapist tomorrow just to salvage his bruised ego. Not my problem, though. I rested my chin on my hands, grinning from ear to ear. The more miserable Carter was, the happier I felt.Just as I was about to pop a bottle of champagne to celebrate, the doorbell rang. Carter’s stony face appeared on the video intercom, his mouth set in a grim, rigid line. Before I could even wrap my head around how he’d tracked me to this secluded hillside estate among all the properties under his name, he had the security manager override the smart lock. The door flew open, and he shoved me violently against the foyer wall. His fingers clamped down brutally on my waist. His dark eyes burned with a feral, murderous intensity, yet his voice came out eerily calm. "Chloe Scott. You really outdid yourself." The heat from his hands seeped through my clothes, blistering hot. I lowered my eyes and gave him a flat, uncaring shrug. After all the vicious things he’d hissed at me over the years, a petty threat barely registered. I was completely numb to it. I even had the spare energy to point toward the TV news and mock him. "I mean, she’s gorgeous and knows how to put on a show. She’d make a lovely Mrs. Vance." "Why don't we sign the divorce papers tomorrow?" Usually, the mere mention of divorce set Carter off like a bomb. Having known him for decades, I understood him better than anyone—especially how much he despised me. He would rather use our marriage as a prison to rot in together than ever grant me the freedom to walk away. I let my eyes fall, feeling like an exhausted beast backed into a corner. I braced myself for another miserable, shouting match. Except, this time, things went differently. Carter let out a dark, furious laugh at my apathy, but said nothing. After staring down at me for a long, silent second, he hoisted me effortlessly over his shoulder. Dizzy and gasping, I kicked and struggled, but he hauled me straight upstairs to the master bedroom and slammed me onto the mattress. The second I pushed myself up from the pillows, I saw him unbuttoning his shirt with icy detachment. In his hand, he gripped his black textured designer belt. Realizing what he was about to do, my heart leaped into my throat, and I scrambled to scramble off the edge of the bed. I barely reached the footboard before his fingers clamped around my ankle. The cold metal buckle snapped shut around my wrists. His scorching breath fell heavily against the back of my neck. Through the sharp, tearing agony of his intrusion, his cold, deep voice echoed in my ear: "Guilty people don't get happy endings." "Chloe, we are in this until the day we die!" That was Carter’s lifelong verdict for me. I never accepted it. So, we spent three years ripping each other apart inside this sick joke of a marriage. A constant war of attrition, back and forth, endlessly exhausting. Except now, I didn't want to play his twisted game anymore. Clutching the medical diagnosis in my hand, I stared quietly out the window. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, an orange sun dipped below the horizon, its fading light slowly swallowed by the towering city skyline until the last trace vanished. When darkness settled completely, I rubbed my aching eyes and dialed Carter’s number. The line rang steadily for thirty seconds before cutting off. Unanswered, exactly as expected. Sighing softly, I sent a text on SnapChat to a mutual friend in Carter's inner circle. A location pin came back immediately. When I arrived, the VIP lounge was at the height of its party. A girl in a white dress had just been shoved into Carter’s lap, her cheeks flushed with shy embarrassment. Truth or Dare gone wrong, presumably. The crowd around them was cheering, egging her on to kiss him. Carter lounged back in the center, his sharp jawline framed by the dim shadows. The corner of his lip curled in an easy smirk as he slid an arm around the eager girl, though his dark eyes flickered with faint irritation. Fluttering her lashes, the girl leaned up to press her lips to his. Carter held that wicked, teasing half-smile, neither leaning down nor pulling away. Just as their lips were about to meet, someone caught sight of me standing by the door. A voice gasped out in shock: "Chloe!"Carter turned his head at the sound. When our eyes met, a flash of pure mockery crossed his face. He caught the girl’s chin in his fingers and pulled her down into a deep, filthy kiss. The massive lounge went dead quiet, save for the wet sounds of their mouths moving together. I casually closed the heavy door behind me, walked over, and took a seat on an empty armchair. I waited patiently until Carter finally broke the kiss before speaking in an even tone. "We need to talk." Carter’s brow furrowed slightly. His lips were still slick and bruised from the kiss. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Having another episode?" he asked casually. The temperature in the room plummeted through the floor. Three years of marriage, and I had caught him cheating countless times. But I’d only made a scene during the very first year. Back then, I’d smashed heirlooms and screamed my lungs out, demanding to know how he could turn into such a monster. Carter had simply stood among the shards of broken glass, staring down at me with cold, dead eyes. He’d asked with sneering contempt: "Chloe, what kind of sick fit are you throwing now?" From that point on, Carter stopped hiding it entirely. He set Alyssa up in a luxury penthouse owned by his family, moving in with her openly. The entire social circle buzzed with rumors that Carter had finally fallen for real. I hired someone to check on the apartment. The private investigator brought back a stack of photos showing Carter helping Alyssa water plants on the balcony. He was wearing relaxed loungewear, his messy hair falling over his forehead, making him look like a carefree boy again. Alyssa wore a matching set. Smiling warmly, she set down the watering can and reached up to smooth his stray curls. With her bare face and dark hair, she looked clean and radiant. When her eyes crinkled in laughter, a tiny mole beneath her lower eyelid peeked out, charming and playful. Carter looked at her with such quiet gentleness, bending down slightly to let her fuss with his hair. They looked gorgeous together. Perfectly matched. Like two soulmates. I had sat on the terrace that night, holding that thick stack of glossy photos, staring at them in silence for hours. Eventually, I threw every single picture into the gas burner. I never threw another tantrum again. At most, whenever I felt petty, I leaked a tip to the tabloids just to make his life a little harder. Tonight felt like a carbon copy of that past, but I didn't have the energy left to fight him. Lowering my eyes, I pulled the divorce papers from my purse and laid them flat on the table in front of him. "I'm here to sign the divorce."