Signed Away: His New Wife

In my past life, I died alone in a sterile hospital bed while my fiancé, Dyllan, comforted his "foster sister" Heather through a fake panic attack.

He missed the birth and death of our child because Heather was "too delicate" to be left alone.

Even as I took my last breath, he was wiping away her crocodile tears, ignoring my desperate calls.

I sacrificed my dreams, my money, and my life for him, only to be a forgotten footnote.

But when I opened my eyes, I was back at the City Hall counter, the marriage license waiting.

Dyllan tapped his foot impatiently, checking his phone.

"Hurry up, Ivy. Heather called. She' s having an episode. She needs me."

The old Ivy would have trembled and obeyed, desperate for his approval.

But I just smiled, a cold, calculated expression he didn't recognize.

"Go to her," I said, pushing him toward the door. "I'll handle the paperwork. Family comes first, right?"

He rushed out without a backward glance, relieved to be the hero again.

Left alone with the official document, I didn't write my own name on the bride's line.

With a steady hand and a heart full of vengeance, I wrote Heather Rosales.

Congratulations, Dyllan. You're legally married to the burden you love so much.

And I am finally free.

Chapter 1

**IVY POV**

The pen felt heavy in my hand, heavier than any burden I' d carried in my past life, which was saying something because in that life, I died alone, forgotten, after years of sacrificing everything for the man now tapping his foot impatiently beside me. Dyllan Chambers, my supposed fiancé, looked at me, then at the half-filled marriage license application lying on the cold, municipal counter. His impatience was a familiar ache deep in my gut.

"Ivy, what' s taking so long?" His voice was a low rumble, laced with the same frayed nerves that had become his default setting whenever Heather was involved. "We' re already running late. Heather called again, she' s having one of her… episodes."

My gaze lingered on the blank space labeled 'Applicant 1: Full Legal Name' . In another life, exactly five years ago, my hand would have trembled with joy, not this cold, calculated resolve. That Ivy would have etched her name with reverence, seeing it as the gateway to a shared future, a future that promised warmth and belonging. That Ivy would have ignored the red flags and the nagging doubts, clinging to the illusion of love.

But that Ivy was dead. She had died in a sterile hospital bed, the faint beeps of a monitor her only companion, while Dyllan, her husband, comforted his divorced foster sister, Heather, through a made-up anxiety attack. The memory was a fresh, raw wound, even now. The cold neglect had mirrored the cold steel of the gurney, the chill seeping into her bones long before her heart finally gave out. My fingers, now tracing the empty line, felt the phantom cold of that lonely death.

"Ivy?" Dyllan' s voice cut through the memory, sharper this time. He didn' t notice the distant look in my eyes, the ghost of a life unlived. He never noticed anything that wasn' t directly related to his own comfort or Heather' s manufactured crisis. "Are you feeling alright? You look a little… pale."

His concern was a shallow pool, easily drained. It wasn't for me, not really. It was for the inconvenience my paleness presented to his schedule, to his need to rush to Heather' s side. I gave him a noncommittal hum, a syllable devoid of emotion. My fingers still hovered over the form, the pen still poised.

He sighed, a dramatic gust of air that ruffled the sparse hair on his forehead. "Look, I know this is a big step, but we' ve talked about this for years. You know how important this is to Mom and Dad, and to… well, to Heather." He glanced at his phone, which had just vibrated with another message. His brow furrowed, his handsome face marred by a familiar strain. "She' s really struggling today. Maybe it' s the stress of us getting married. She feels replaced, you know? She always needs me, Ivy."

His words, meant to explain, were another nail in the coffin of my past life' s hopes. Heather, fragile and needy, a delicate flower requiring constant watering from Dyllan' s well of attention. I saw her in my mind' s eye, her big, innocent eyes, her pouty lips, her perpetually clutching at his arm. A 'white lotus,' as the internet called manipulative women who feigned purity. Dyllan, the hero, always falling for the damsel in manufactured distress.

A bitter, almost imperceptible smile touched my lips. An idea, cold and brilliant, solidified in my mind.

"You know," I said, my voice surprisingly even, "maybe you should go check on her."

Dyllan' s head snapped up. His eyes, usually so quick to criticize my lack of understanding, now held a flicker of surprise, then relief. It was as if I' d just handed him a Get Out of Jail Free card.

"You really think so?" He asked, a hopeful edge to his tone. "But the license…"

"It can wait," I said, shrugging. The lie tasted like ash, but it was a necessary ingredient in my new recipe for freedom. "Heather needs you. This is important too, but family comes first, right? Especially when someone' s in distress." I watched him, measuring his reaction. He was practically vibrating with the desire to leave.

"You' re right! You always understand, Ivy." He reached across the counter, his hand briefly covering mine. The touch was a hollow shell, devoid of the warmth I' d once craved. "I' ll just go calm her down. I promise, I' ll be back in an hour, two at most. We' ll get this done, and then we can celebrate properly tonight. Just you and me."

His words were a performance, a well-rehearsed script he' d used countless times. Just you and me. It always ended with Heather needing him more.

"Don' t worry about it tonight, Dyllan," I said, my voice softer than I intended. A strange wave of pity, quickly suppressed, washed over me. Pity for the man who would walk headfirst into his own misery. "Just make sure Heather is really okay. That' s what matters."

He nodded, already halfway turned towards the exit. "You' re the best, Ivy. Really. So understanding." He paused, then added, "It' s why I love you."

The words hung in the air, a familiar echo of a forgotten melody. I said nothing. What was there to say? To argue with a ghost? To fight for a love that was never truly mine? I had done that in another life, and it had killed me.

He was gone then, a whirlwind of hurried footsteps and the distant sound of his car starting. The door of the City Hall office clicked shut, leaving me standing alone, the pen still in my hand. I took a deep, shuddering breath, the stale air filling my lungs, then slowly releasing the suffocating weight that had settled there for years. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of liberation.

The image of that hospital room flashed, sharp and clear. The sterile white walls. The distant chatter of nurses. The constant, dull ache of a body giving up. And Dyllan' s voice on the phone, hushed and concerned, but not for me. "Heather, baby, just breathe. I' m coming. Ivy can handle things here." He had hung up without even a goodbye, without a single thought for the woman who was dying for him.

He wasn' t there when the doctor delivered the news about the pregnancy complications. He wasn' t there when our child, a tiny, struggling life, couldn' t make it. He wasn' t there to hold my hand when the pain, physical and emotional, threatened to tear me apart. He was always with Heather, comforting her through her latest fabricated crisis, wiping away her crocodile tears.

I remembered the day our son, our firstborn, asked him, "Daddy, why does Aunt Heather get all your time? Why not Mommy?" Dyllan had just ruffled the boy' s hair, a dismissive gesture. "Your Aunt Heather is delicate, son. She needs me more." And then he had looked at me, a silent accusation in his eyes, as if I were the one demanding too much. I had just swallowed the lump in my throat, the bitter taste of knowing my own child saw how little I mattered.

No. Not again. This life, this second chance, was not for that.

My gaze returned to the marriage license. With a steady hand, a hand that no longer trembled with sorrow or longing, I scratched out my own name in the 'Applicant 1' section. Then, with a defiant flourish, I wrote a different one.

Heather Rosales.

I pushed the form across the counter to the waiting clerk, a quiet, almost imperceptible smile playing on my lips.

"Here you go," I said. My voice was calm, utterly devoid of the storm that had just passed inside me.

The clerk, a bored woman with tired eyes, barely glanced at the paper. She took it, stamped it, and handed me a receipt. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," I replied, the word tasting like freedom.

I walked out of City Hall, the crisp morning air hitting my face like a refreshing slap. The heavy weight that had settled in my chest for years, a crushing burden of unspoken grievances and unfulfilled hopes, had lifted. It was gone. Replaced by a lightness I hadn' t known existed. The world looked brighter, the colors sharper, the sounds clearer. It was like I had been living under a perpetual grey filter, and now, suddenly, the saturation had been turned all the way up.

Heather Rosales. The name still felt foreign, even after all these years. She had entered my life when I was ten, a year after my parents died and I was adopted by the Chambers. She was a year younger, a waif with huge, tear-filled eyes, clinging to Coralie Chambers, Dyllan' s mother. Coralie, who claimed to love both of us, but whose gaze always softened for Heather, whose voice always took on a sugary tone when she spoke to her. Heather knew how to play the part of the helpless victim, the grateful orphan, and Coralie ate it up. I, on the other hand, was the capable one, the one who cooked, cleaned, tutored Dyllan, and later, worked odd jobs to contribute to the household. My competence was my curse.

I remembered the day I got my acceptance letter to Chicago' s top law school. It was a dream, a beacon of hope in my otherwise mundane life. I' d shown it to Dyllan, excitement bubbling in my chest. He had looked at the letter, then at me, an unreadable expression on his face. Later that night, Heather had a particularly violent 'asthma attack,' her tiny body wracked with theatrical coughs, her face pale as a ghost. Coralie and Dyllan had rushed to her side, their faces etched with fear. Heather, between gasps, had whispered, "Don't leave us, Ivy. We need you. Who will take care of Dyllan when you're gone?"

The next morning, Dyllan had sat me down, his hand resting on my arm, his eyes earnest. "Ivy, I know this is hard, but... Heather really needs us. And Mom and Dad, they're getting older. My police academy training is so demanding. Can't you... can't you put off law school for a year or two? Just until we're more stable?" His words, coated in concern, had felt like a suffocating blanket. I had loved him then, foolishly, blindly. I had believed his future was my future. I had folded the acceptance letter, put it back in its envelope, and never looked at it again. Heather had recovered miraculously the next day. Her smile, when she thought I wasn' t looking, was triumphant.

Well, not this time. Heather could have Dyllan. She could have the life I once thought I wanted. I was going to Chicago. I was going to law school. And I was going to build a life, my own life, that was free.