Eleventh Time I died, My Husband Finally Regretted

My husband Jarren tried to kill me—nine times for his mistress. The last attempt was just last night. He took me to the lake, saying he needed to “talk.” Before I could respond, he shoved me into the freezing water. I barely survived, clinging to a branch until the butler found me—only to leave me shivering in the mud outside the mansion. Soaked and shaking, I passed our bedroom. I heard moaning—Jarren and Elisa. That was my breaking point. If he wouldn’t let me die, only make me suffer, I’d do it myself. I nearly swallowed a bottle of pills… but Elisa barged in, furious over the mess in the living room. She hit me. Jarren did nothing. I called a divorce lawyer. “I want a divorce. I want to erase myself from this family.” “Mrs. Smith,” he said, “you signed a clause. Neither party can divorce unless one is… deceased.” Desperate, I called the only person who ever truly cared—his grandmother. I told her everything. “Give me five days,” she said. “I’ll handle it. Jarren and that woman will pay.” Five days later, news of my death reached him. And that day, Jarren died a thousand deaths—realizing he’d never see me again even if he cried on bended knees.