99 Roses for Her, One Procedure for Me

For ten years, I loved a man who showered me with million-dollar jewelry.

Then he said, "Natalie, let's get a divorce. I want to give her a real place in my life."

The next morning, we walked into the City Clerk's Office.

That night, Samuel didn't come home.

Instead, he booked my favorite restaurant—toasting his newfound freedom with Emily, his mistress.

Meanwhile, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

[Let's meet now, Natalie.]

[Natalie, I've never forgotten you.]

[Natalie, I'll wait for you at the same place.]

The wind howled as Samuel and I stepped inside the office.

Noticing my messy hair, he reached out—gentle, familiar—and smoothed it back into place.

The clerk, mistaking us for newlyweds, handed us a marriage registration number.

"Sorry," I corrected, "we're here for a divorce."

The woman blinked, confused.

At the divorce window, the clerk turned to Samuel. "Reason for separation?"

He stayed silent. So I answered for him.

"Personality differences. Broken feelings."

A polite lie.

The truth? Samuel had found someone new—Emily, the doe-eyed intern at his company.

He drove her to work, sat by her hospital bed, and once showered her with 99 champagne roses in front of the entire office.

Her personal knight in shining armor.

As for me? My reason was simpler.

I don't do secondhand men.

The clerk hesitated, flipping through our faded marriage certificates. "Are you sure? Maybe take some time—"

"I'm busy," Samuel cut in. "Just process it."

An hour later, we walked out with divorce papers and a mandatory cooling-off period.

He pressed his lips into a thin line. "Where are you headed? I'll drive you."

Before I could refuse, he was already at the car, engine running.

I reached for the passenger door—then stopped.

We weren't that anymore.

So I slid into the backseat instead, meeting his gaze in the rearview mirror.

The car glided into traffic. Even from behind, I could tell—Samuel was happy.

"Turn up the AC," I said.

The cold air stung my nose, making me sniffle.

Wordlessly, he passed me a half-used tissue pack.

He knew damn well I didn't have allergies.

"Natalie," he said finally, "I'll explain everything to your parents."

Classic Samuel—always taking charge, always playing the hero.

But he wasn't always like this.