Divorce Him Before We Even Marry - Chapter 11: Chapter 11
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The two-day train ride was rough—every jolt and sway made it impossible to get more than a few minutes of restless sleep. By the time I finally reached the school, I let out a long, exhausted breath, grateful to be back on solid ground.
Enrollment went smoothly, and before I knew it, I was buried in coursework. Back in my old life, I'd never set foot on a college campus, so this time, I wasn't about to waste a single moment. Between classes, meals, and sleep, I lived in the library, soaking up every bit of knowledge I could.
Three months had already passed when Ethan's first letter arrived. I wasn't shocked he'd found me—a month earlier, my old teacher had written to say Ethan had tracked him down and learned I was in the Northwest. So when his envelope showed up, I just sighed and tore it open.
He refused to accept the broken engagement. You'll always be my wife, he wrote. Then came the excuses—there was nothing between him and Linda, he knew I couldn't stand her, so he'd sent her away and swore he'd never see her again. I'll wait for you, he promised.
A hundred dollars fluttered out with the letter. I folded both away without a reply.
The money stayed untouched.
College life was intense, and the workload was crushing. I needed extra cash, so I started looking for a part-time job.
Even with top grades and a scholarship, my monthly expenses were tight. When my professor found out about my plans, he scolded me—then started sending me fifty dollars every month.
His letter made it clear: "This is a loan." But at the bottom, he'd scribbled a rare, lighthearted note: "Don't worry, my wife knows—she's fully on board!"
Something about that broke me.
I'd been through hell before—screamed, raged, regretted—but never cried. Not in this life, not in the last.
Yet there I was, sobbing like a dam had burst. My roommates rushed over, startled, trying to comfort me.
After that, I buried myself in my studies even harder.
Ethan's letters arrived like clockwork each month, always with a hundred dollars tucked inside. In his last note before finals, he admitted he knew I wouldn't come back—but asked me to wait. "I'll visit for New Year's," he promised.
Then the letters stopped.
Later, my professor wrote to tell me Ethan had married Linda.
"It caused quite the scandal," he said. "He'd applied for a transfer to your city. But someone reported him for misconduct. Since you were already gone, there were no 'victims'—so it got swept under the rug. That woman lost her job. He had no choice but to marry her."
Then, with quiet relief: "You dodged a bullet."
I knew I was lucky. Lucky to have been reborn before filling out my college applications. Lucky to escape the mess of my past life.
A year later, another letter from Ethan arrived.
"I'm sorry," it began.
He confessed Linda had been the one to report him. She'd found out about his transfer request. When he refused to stay, she took the nuclear option—and won.
Then, with painful realization: "I finally figured out what those dates on your calendar meant. You weren't counting down to our wedding. You were counting down to your escape."
I smiled and burned every letter. Sent every dollar back through my professor.
Two years later, before graduation, I joined the national 201 Project.
The rest of my life belonged to my country. No looking back.
Enrollment went smoothly, and before I knew it, I was buried in coursework. Back in my old life, I'd never set foot on a college campus, so this time, I wasn't about to waste a single moment. Between classes, meals, and sleep, I lived in the library, soaking up every bit of knowledge I could.
Three months had already passed when Ethan's first letter arrived. I wasn't shocked he'd found me—a month earlier, my old teacher had written to say Ethan had tracked him down and learned I was in the Northwest. So when his envelope showed up, I just sighed and tore it open.
He refused to accept the broken engagement. You'll always be my wife, he wrote. Then came the excuses—there was nothing between him and Linda, he knew I couldn't stand her, so he'd sent her away and swore he'd never see her again. I'll wait for you, he promised.
A hundred dollars fluttered out with the letter. I folded both away without a reply.
The money stayed untouched.
College life was intense, and the workload was crushing. I needed extra cash, so I started looking for a part-time job.
Even with top grades and a scholarship, my monthly expenses were tight. When my professor found out about my plans, he scolded me—then started sending me fifty dollars every month.
His letter made it clear: "This is a loan." But at the bottom, he'd scribbled a rare, lighthearted note: "Don't worry, my wife knows—she's fully on board!"
Something about that broke me.
I'd been through hell before—screamed, raged, regretted—but never cried. Not in this life, not in the last.
Yet there I was, sobbing like a dam had burst. My roommates rushed over, startled, trying to comfort me.
After that, I buried myself in my studies even harder.
Ethan's letters arrived like clockwork each month, always with a hundred dollars tucked inside. In his last note before finals, he admitted he knew I wouldn't come back—but asked me to wait. "I'll visit for New Year's," he promised.
Then the letters stopped.
Later, my professor wrote to tell me Ethan had married Linda.
"It caused quite the scandal," he said. "He'd applied for a transfer to your city. But someone reported him for misconduct. Since you were already gone, there were no 'victims'—so it got swept under the rug. That woman lost her job. He had no choice but to marry her."
Then, with quiet relief: "You dodged a bullet."
I knew I was lucky. Lucky to have been reborn before filling out my college applications. Lucky to escape the mess of my past life.
A year later, another letter from Ethan arrived.
"I'm sorry," it began.
He confessed Linda had been the one to report him. She'd found out about his transfer request. When he refused to stay, she took the nuclear option—and won.
Then, with painful realization: "I finally figured out what those dates on your calendar meant. You weren't counting down to our wedding. You were counting down to your escape."
I smiled and burned every letter. Sent every dollar back through my professor.
Two years later, before graduation, I joined the national 201 Project.
The rest of my life belonged to my country. No looking back.
End of Divorce Him Before We Even Marry Chapter 11. Continue reading Chapter 12 or return to Divorce Him Before We Even Marry book page.