Wake Me Up When We Divorce

I was born with a soul made of lead. Where other people possessed ambition or restlessness, I possessed a bone-deep, chronic exhaustion that defied medical science. Once, while walking down a sunlit sidewalk, my battery simply drained to zero, and I keeled forward, collapsing straight into the chest of a shockingly handsome stranger—whose skin was curiously cold, carrying the faint, timeless scent of aged cedar and midnight frost. He caught me in a blur of preternatural speed, held me steady for a second, and looked down at my face with dark, crimson-hinted eyes. "Is this a scam?" he asked, his voice a low, velvety baritone that vibrated straight through my bones. "Are you going to ask for cash or call the cops?" I was far too tired to open my mouth, so I just let my eyelids flutter shut. He took my silence as a confession of guilt—or perhaps sheer, unadulterated apathy. Either way, that was how I landed a full-time, fully catered job with an incredible benefits package. My official job title? Mrs. Everett Knox. I was thoroughly satisfied with the arrangement. Everett was a ruthless, unrelenting creature of the night wrapped in the guise of a corporate workaholic. When he wasn't pulling eighty-hour weeks at his firm’s high-rise headquarters, he was living on a private jet somewhere between London and Tokyo, managing both a multi-national empire and a centuries-old nocturnal lineage. On the rare nights he was actually home, his vocabulary was largely limited to five words: "Are we doing this tonight?" Working the night shift—or rather, sharing a nocturnal schedule with an immortal—took a bit of effort, sure, but the upside was that I rarely had to move. That comfortable rhythm held until Everett went away on another extended business trip, and my mother-in-law, Judith, marched into the estate dragging a pale, ethereal woman by the wrist. Judith pointed a manicured finger at me and scoffed. "If you didn't bear a passing resemblance to Everett’s first love, Camille, do you really think you ever would’ve stepped foot in this house?" She motioned to the woman beside her. "Now that Camille is back, you can pack your bags and get out." I blinked slowly, nodded, and pulled out my phone. I opened the custom AI assistant Everett had synced directly to my messaging app—though given his preternatural nature, I sometimes suspected it was just a telepathic proxy channeled through an encrypted server—and typed: "Can I get a divorce without showing up in court? Too lazy to go." The AI, which usually generated instant responses, stalled out for two full minutes before sending back a single character: "?" …. 1 The only reason I used that AI in the first place was that I’d been too lazy to download a separate application. Everett had integrated a custom model directly into my text thread so I could order food, adjust the smart home temperature, or query basic questions without lifting a finger—or having to listen to his immortal lectures on human biology. Usually, it worked like a charm. Today, however, it seemed to be glitching. After an agonizingly long pause, a response finally popped up: "Hello. This office has no objection to your divorce. However, if you insist on proceeding, you should consult a licensed family attorney regarding the details." Find a lawyer? Forget it. Way too much paperwork. I’m too tired. I decided to just wait until Everett got back. He’d handled our entire wedding, after all. On the morning of the ceremony, I slept until ten o'clock, completely unbothered, until he gently scooped me out of bed with effortless, vampiric strength to be painted, coiffed, and laced into a dress. During the vows, when I whined that my heels were killing me, he carried me bridal-style through the rest of the reception. I remembered his eyes being intensely bloodshot—though back then, I just assumed it was a lack of sunlight. At the time, I thought he was just exhausted from managing the logistics. Turns out, he was probably weeping internally because I was just a stand-in for his tragic lost love. Seeing me stare blankly into space for so long, Judith raised her voice, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm talking to you! Where are your manners? Sleeping until noon every day, ordering room service in your own house... is there a lazier daughter-in-law in this entire city?" She gestured warmly toward Camille. "Look at Camille! The very first time she comes over, she brings me hand-crafted pastries she baked herself." Honestly, living in the Knox estate had almost no downsides, except for Judith. She was a bitter woman who had spent decades being belittled and micromanaged by her own mother-in-law. Having finally clawed her way to the top of the family food chain, she couldn't stomach the sight of another woman enjoying a life of effortless luxury. Even though Everett employed a staff of ten to run the house, Judith insisted on finding excuses to hassle me. When Everett was around, she played the part of the doting, refined mother. The second his jet left the tarmac, or the moment he vanished into his daytime crypt, the mask slipped right off. I opened my mouth, genuinely intending to muster a mild defense. Beside me, the housekeeper—a woman trained under Everett's strict protocol to anticipate my absolute lack of physical output—misinterpreted my open mouth. With practiced speed, she picked up a piece of Camille’s homemade pastry and delicately popped it into my mouth. I chewed. "Huh. That’s actually really good." What was I about to say again? Ah, whatever. Not worth the energy. Judith watched me chew with a face so contorted with rage her lipstick looked crooked. Camille stepped forward instantly, adopting the role of gentle peacemaker. "Judith, please don't be hard on Ms. Ellis. I'm sure she has her own busy schedule and couldn't find the time to cater to you. If you like the pastries, I'll bake them for you every week. My doctor said staying active will aid my recovery anyway..." She paused, dropping her gaze, her voice trembling softly. "Honestly... if it weren't for this terrible illness of mine, I would never have left Everett years ago. I thought I was dying, and I couldn't bear the thought of dragging him down with me... that was the only reason I went abroad..." By the time she finished, Camille let out two delicate, raspy coughs. Her eyes welled with glittering, poetic tears. She looked like a tragic painting come to life. I stared at her, a realization dawning on me. No wonder Everett—an immortal creature who lived on a diet of pure business and absolute control—kept thick, dry medical journals on his nightstand. He wasn't expanding his mind; he was obsessing over human frailty and his ex-girlfriend's chronic condition. I looked Camille up and down and finally found the strength to speak. "Are you... sick?" (Subtext: Can a mortal body that frail really survive the nightly marathon an immortal vampiric partner demands?) Because I preferred not to waste breath on long sentences, Everett and I had developed a silent dialect over the years. I’d throw him a look, and his preternatural mind would instantly decode my exact train of thought. Camille, clearly, was not fluent in Maren-speak. Her jaw twitched, her delicate knuckles turning white as she clenched her handbag. She looked as if I’d just slapped her across the face. Realizing my words sounded horribly insensitive without the context of my internal monologue, I opened my mouth to clarify. Before I could get a word out, Judith intervened, terrified I was about to steal another pastry. "Enough! Take those pastries away and have the kitchen bring out lunch. We have a guest, and the Knox family will treat her with proper hospitality." The head housekeeper, Mrs. Marshall—a woman who had served Judith for decades and knew precisely which way the wind blew—promptly cleared the pastries and instructed the staff to lay out lunch. Knowing full well that I had a life-threatening allergy to shellfish, Mrs. Marshall proudly set down a feast composed almost entirely of king crab, roasted prawns, and buttery seared scallops. The number of dishes I could actually eat without my throat closing up? Zero. Judith ignored my existence completely, piling delicate morsels onto Camille’s plate while showering her with warm, maternal praise. Noticing that my hands remained folded in my lap, Camille turned to me with a faint, sympathetic smile. "Ms. Ellis, why aren't you eating? Is peeling the shellfish too much trouble? Here, let me help you." Before I could decline, she picked up a giant prawn, methodically removed the shell, and placed the succulent white meat onto my plate. Then another. And another. Soon, a small, fragrant mountain of sweet shellfish sat right under my nose, filling the air with a dangerously tempting aroma. My stomach gave a tiny rumble. Ordering delivery on my phone required scrolling, selecting, and waiting. The food in front of me was right there. I pulled out my phone and texted the AI: "If someone with a severe shellfish allergy eats prawns, how many can they get away with before dying?" The AI lagged again, returning with another exasperated response: "?" "Why would you eat shellfish if you are allergic? Are you suicidal?" I felt a rare spike of annoyance and typed back an uncharacteristically long paragraph: "Are you the AI or am I? If I had literally anything else to eat, would I be trying to negotiate with anaphylaxis? Answer the question: what’s the absolute maximum threshold?" This time, the response was swift and distinctly sterile: "Hello. Individuals with severe shellfish allergies are strictly prohibited from consuming any amount of crustacean meat." I sighed, letting my shoulders slump. "Fine. I’m starving. Order me delivery. Anything. Make it fast." I locked my screen, intending to retreat upstairs to forage for leftover snacks in my bedroom, when the butler rushed into the dining room, breathing heavily as he pushed a silver catering cart. He shot me a nervous glance, wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and signaled the staff to swap out the dishes. "My deepest apologies, ladies. There was a mix-up in the primary kitchen. These dishes were supposed to be served alongside lunch." Judith frowned. "I didn't order additional dishes." Camille lowered her head, a soft, blushing smile touching her lips. Judith’s eyes lit up with sudden understanding, and she patted Camille’s hand triumphantly. "Ah! Everett must have known you were visiting today and had his personal chef prepare these ahead of time! Look at this—slow-roasted beef wraps, spicy Sichuan chicken, crispy pork belly... all your old favorites, isn't that right, dear?" Toward the end of her sentence, Judith’s tone wavered slightly, noticing the lingering hesitation on the butler’s face. The butler opened his mouth as if to correct her, saw the atmosphere in the room, and quietly backed away without a word. Meanwhile, I had already descended upon the table like a woman possessing a new lease on life, devouring the spicy chicken with terrifying efficiency. "Miss Camille," I mumbled through a mouthful of crispy pork, "you have incredible taste." Every single item on that cart was an absolute favorite of mine. Camille picked up a small piece of chicken, placed it delicately in her mouth, and chewed it with a strained, rigid smile. She spent two full minutes trying to swallow a single bite. Finished with my feast, I set my chopsticks down with a contented sigh and stood up to leave. Camille immediately rose as well, picking up a cup of steaming green tea from the sideboard and stepping into my path. "Ms. Ellis, I noticed you didn't drink anything during lunch. Please, have some tea to clear your palate." I waved my hand dismissively. I didn't even come close to touching her, but Camille let out an exaggerated gasp and lurched backward. The porcelain cup shattered against the hardwood floor, splashing scalding liquid across her pale, delicate wrist. Instantly, tears gathered in her large, tragic eyes. "Judith, please, I'm fine! Don't blame her—Ms. Ellis didn't mean to do it!" Judith’s head snapped toward me, her eyes burning with fury. I just wanted to go to sleep, but Camille grabbed my arm with a desperate, iron grip. "Ms. Ellis, if you won't take a sip of tea with me, it means you refuse to forgive me!" I opened my mouth to tell her to let go, but the sheer volume of refined carbohydrates I’d just consumed hit my bloodstream like an intravenous sedative. My vision swirled. The high ceilings of the dining room began to tilt. My knees gave out, and I hit the floor like a sack of flour. Judith froze, her furious expression faltering as her suspicious gaze slowly drifted toward Camille. Camille looked like she was actually going to cry this time, her voice panicky and shrill. "Judith, I swear! I didn't push her! I barely touched her!" Lying half-unconscious on the cold floor, I let out two soft, pathetic grunts. (I can vouch for her... I just ate too much... it's a carb coma...) ... When I woke up, the sun was sinking below the horizon, casting a deep crimson glow across the bedroom. I felt marvelously rested. I sat up, arching my back into a luxurious stretch, only to find Camille sitting in an armchair right beside my bed. She was staring at me through the dim light, her dark eyes unblinking and utterly unsettling. "Maren," she said, her voice dropping into a cold, sharp venom. "Is this how you tricked Everett into marrying you? Playing the helpless, delicate victim?" She leaned forward, her red lips twisting into a smirk. "Stolen goods are never truly yours. He loves 'me'. You are nothing more than a cheap stand-in. If I hadn't been forced to go abroad for treatment—if I hadn't left without saying goodbye—do you honestly believe a girl like you would ever have had a chance?" Camille raised her hand, waving an old, faded envelope between her fingers. "Look at this," she sneered. "A love letter I wrote him years ago. He’s kept it in his bedside drawer all this time. If you have any dignity left, you’ll pack your bags and leave before things get truly embarrassing." I recognized that envelope immediately. Everett pulled it out almost every night before the sun went down, tracing the paper with his cold thumb. He never hid it from me, and I had never bothered to ask about it. It wasn't that I was trying to be a saint; I was just too tired to pry. So it had belonged to Camille all along. A strange, hollow sensation fluttered in my chest—not quite heartbreak, but a mild, lingering annoyance. "Seriously? Do immortal billionaire CEOs not own private transport? If he missed her so much, a two-hour supersonic flight to Europe would have solved everything instead of dragging me into this dramatic love triangle." Ugh. Getting a divorce sounded like so much work. I looked at her with complete, unvarnished sincerity. "Miss Camille... could you do me a huge favor and find me a good divorce lawyer?" Camille froze, her triumphant expression short-circuiting. A second later, her face twisted in rage. "Maren Ellis, where do you get off acting so indifferent? Don't you get it yet? 'He loves me!'" "I know," I said gently. If she didn't want to help, she didn't have to yell. Why was she getting so worked up? Then it hit me: Camille was probably deeply insecure. She needed validation from external sources to feel safe. Everett really was a menace for stringing mortal women along like this across the centuries. Feeling a sudden wave of pity for her, I pulled out my phone, opened the custom AI thread, and typed out a message line by line: "Everett, who do you actually love? Note: Answer for Camille." This time, the AI responded instantly—though given his vampiric hearing and control over his network, it sounded less like code and more like a direct telepathic transmission. A crisp, high-definition audio clip played through the speaker, broadcasting Everett’s deep, velvety baritone straight into the quiet room: "Maren." The voice setting was cloned directly from his real voice, and hearing him say my name so clearly sent a strange, cold shiver down my spine. Camille stared at my phone in absolute horror. I felt an acute surge of awkwardness. "Great. The AI is too smart for its own good—it’s analyzing past chat logs and feeding me the answers it thinks I want to hear." Attempting to fix the situation, I sent another prompt: "Everett, who do you really love? It’s fine if you lie. Answer for Camille!" The phone speaker chimed again, vibrating with that unmistakable, resonant voice: "I love Maren." "Maren, what is the meaning of this?!" Camille completely snapped. She lunged across the bed, reaching out to snatch my phone. Naturally, I pulled back. I am a lazy person; my phone is my portal to the outside world. I couldn't let her take it. As she reached over, I instinctively dropped my weight to evade her. Deprived of the resistance she expected, Camille lost her balance and pitched forward, crashing headfirst into the heavy mahogany wardrobe. "THUD." It was a brutal impact. A thin line of crimson blood began to bead along her hairline. I cringed, feeling genuinely apologetic. "Are you okay?" Camille looked up at me, a terrifying, cold smile breaking across her face. Without a word, she gripped the edge of the wardrobe and slammed her own head against the wood a second time. Before I could process what was happening, she grabbed a glass vase off the nightstand, smashed it onto the floor, picked up a jagged shard, and dragged it across her own forearm, leaving a horrific, bleeding slice. Having completed her performance, she let out a blood-curdling shriek and sprinted out of the room, weeping hysterically. It took my brain a solid three seconds to catch up. "Ah. She’s framing me." Should I go downstairs and explain? "Nah. Too much walking." I looked down at the phone I’d successfully defended, only to realize the AI messaging thread had an active video call running in the background. Wait. The AI could do real-time video calls now? Since when was machine learning—or vampiric remote surveillance—this advanced? Before I could tap the screen to check the logs, a text message flashed across the top bar from Everett: "I am coming back right now. I’ll be home by tonight. Do not leave the house." A single, terrifying thought seized my mind: "Oh, no." Word travels fast. Is he flying back early via private jet at supersonic speed to execute me for hurting his precious first love? Faced with the sheer terror of confronting an enraged immortal billionaire, and triumphing over my innate laziness, I locked my phone, slid out of bed, and began packing. I opened the walk-in closet, staring at the endless rows of designer clothes Everett had bought for me. Because I spent most of my life sleeping in pajamas, I hadn't worn nine-tenths of them. I paused for two seconds, turned around, and marched straight to the jewelry vault. I scooped every single diamond, emerald, and platinum piece into a duffel bag, abandoning everything else. Bag in hand, I opened the bedroom door, only to run headfirst into Judith. Behind her stood a sobbing Camille—her arm wrapped in bloody gauze—and four towering, stone-faced bodyguards in black suits. "Maren!" Judith spat, her eyes bulging. "I thought you were just lazy, but you are a cruel, malicious monster! How dare you do this to Camille under my roof? Do you have any respect for me as your mother-in-law?!" Beside her, Camille’s tears flowed like a broken faucet. "Judith, please... I know Ms. Ellis had a misunderstanding with Everett, but she shouldn't have taken it out on me. I never wanted to break up their marriage... I just wanted to see him one last time..." Judith gripped Camille’s hand fiercely. "Don't worry, darling. I’m taking charge today." The house butler stepped forward nervously, whispering, "Mrs. Knox, perhaps we should wait until Mr. Knox returns before—" "No!" Judith cut him off sharply. "Everett isn't here, so I make the calls! The Knox family will not tolerate a vicious snake as a daughter-in-law! You men—go in there and pack all her trash! Get rid of everything she touched! I don't want a single reminder of her in this house!" I blinked, taking a step back to clear the doorway. I shot Judith a look of profound gratitude. "Oh... thank you so much. That’s very kind of you." The trained bodyguards moved with military efficiency. Within twenty minutes, they had packed up my entire wardrobe, shoe collection, and vanity contents, stacking a terrifying mountain of twenty-three extra-large rolling suitcases in the foyer. Just looking at that mountain of luggage made me feel like I needed a three-day nap. Noticing my phone battery dipping into the red, I turned to Judith with a polite, tentative smile. "That’s a lot of stuff. Do you think... you could have one of the estate drivers give me a ride?" Judith waved her hand in disgust. "I can't stand the sight of you! Driver! Get the car and take her away!" As I walked out the grand front doors, I cast one last lingering look back at the estate. Camille stood behind Judith, her head lowered, hiding a triumphant, wicked smirk. I opened the AI app one last time and typed: "If we get divorced, who gets custody of the private chef?" No reply. I frowned, retyping: "Is it a felony to kidnap my ex-husband's private chef? What’s the lowest-energy way to pull it off?" This time, the response came instantly, though it made no sense whatsoever given the distance he should have been covering: "Don't you dare step out that door. Wait for me!" "Stupid glitchy AI," I thought. "Once I get my energy back, I’m leaving a terrible review on the App Store." I turned and walked toward the driveway. The main entrance of the Knox estate featured a grand, elevated stone portico with five wide steps leading down to the courtyard. My internal battery dropped to one percent. My phone emitted a low "beep-beep" warning. Four steps left. Three steps. In that fleeting, exhausted moment, an unexpected wave of nostalgia washed over me. I kind of missed Everett. Every single time we walked through these doors together, he would effortlessly scoop me up in his arms with preternatural ease so I didn't have to navigate the stairs. "Ah, whatever," I reminded myself. "He only married you because he was grieving his immortal or mortal past. You actually fell for the act. Consider yourself lucky he isn't suing you." I reached the final step. My legs gave out entirely. Unable to fight the gravitational pull, I keeled forward, bracing myself for the painful impact of cold stone against my face. Instead of hard pavement, I plunged into a warm, broad chest wrapped in fine cashmere—though it carried that familiar, icy undertone and the crisp scent of cedar and rain. Everett’s low, thunderous voice vibrated against my ear, dripping with suppressed fury that carried the supernatural chill of a predator denied: "I leave for three days, and you people dare to treat my wife like this?"