Marrying You is A Mistake

I had read somewhere that curdled milk was a bad omen.

Some dream interpretation perceived it as a sign of dirty money, she thought, as she squinted her eyes at the expiration date printed on the milk's paper container.

Freya preferred her coffee black and unsweetened, but that night, she was craving something sweeter as she prepared her third cup of caffeinated tea in hopes that it would help her sleep despite all the beliefs otherwise.

It was already past midnight and yet, Freya was still wide awake despite the growing exhaustion and fatigue that plagued her those couple of days. Fueled by adrenaline and caffeine, she sat in silence at the dining table, surrounded by the subtle elegance of the room. The dim glow of the chandelier overhead cast a warm ambiance, complementing the polished wooden furniture and fine China neatly arranged before her.

The air was filled with the aroma of a quintessential English dinner spread, a collection of dishes that she, truth be told, was not particularly fond of. A roast beef, the crème de la crème of this household, dominated the center of the table, accompanied by sides of Yorkshire pudding and buttery mashed potatoes. The fine bone heirloom plates held an array of vegetables, including peas, carrots, and roasted Brussels sprouts. The air was tinged with the scent of a rich gravy that clung to the air, enhancing the overall experience.

Her gaze shifted to the meticulously set cutlery – gleaming silverware, crystal-clear glasses, and starched linen napkins neatly folded beside each plate. The room exuded an air of formality that spoke volumes about the English tradition, a stark contrast to what she had been accustomed to.

Though Freya was not particularly enamored with English cuisine, she managed to force a polite smile, acknowledging the effort she had put into curating this dinner. All her dining experiences were a testament to his appreciation for tradition, something that she, despite her personal preferences, had learned to tolerate for the sake of marital harmony.

Freya was so immersed in her deep thoughts that the soft footsteps behind her went unnoticed until he was right there, a silent presence in the room. The faint scent of his cologne finally caught her attention just before he could make a sound.

Glancing over her shoulder, she was greeted by the sight of Clementine who had quietly appeared in the doorway. A warm smile played on her lips as he looked at her, his gaze lingering on the dinner scattered across their dining.

“Clement,” Freya greeted with a smile, before lowering down her tea.

He was dressed down in comfortable athletic pants and a crisp white shirt, a casual contrast to her focused workspace. His dark, thick hair was tousled by the gentle evening breeze that had accompanied him into the room, creating a carefree yet appealing look.

Clementine did not even say a word. Instead, he inched toward the table. As he eased into the chair, it was as if the weight on his shoulders settled onto the wooden surface. The papers crinkled in his grip, telling silent tales of tension.

Freya's familiarity with her husband set off alarm bells in her mind, signaling that something was amiss.

"Want some tea at last?" Freya asked, hopeful for a change in the air.

Again, he did not bother to reply, his eyes fixed on a distant point.

"Hey, Clement?" she persisted, her voice carrying a tinge of concern.

Still, no response. His silence was becoming more palpable.

"Clementine!"

"Huh," he grunted, finally acknowledging her presence but with an absent mind.

"What's going on?" she pressed, sensing an invisible tension.

With a deliberate slowness, he unfolded the creased documents, placing them on the table with a care that contradicted the turmoil in his eyes. Finally, he looked up, and their gazes collided, his silent plea echoing through the room.

Her eyes lingered on the papers he placed atop the table. Even though she knew, somewhere in her heart, that she had an idea of what it was, she could not believe it. But her eyes slowly creeped towards and before she knew it, she was opening the document and line by line, she felt her heart shattering in an instant.

Her gaze fixated on the papers resting on the table. Deep down, she sensed a vague awareness of what they might contain, yet disbelief lingered. Despite her hesitation, her eyes unwillingly gravitated towards the documents. In an instant, she found herself flipping through the pages. Each word felt like a blow, and with every passing line, her heart crumbled.

Freya merely breathed out the air she did not realize she was holding until it just rushed out of her in one, shaky exhalation.

"What's going on?"

Oh…my...

Shit.

Shit.

She knew that look.

It was a dumper look.

"I should have told you earlier." His voice was low.

Freya went still, her heart twisting with sudden unbearable pressure.

“Tell me what, exactly?”

"I just…” He sighed. “I'm not feeling it, Iyah."

She could feel her heart hammering like a deranged woodpecker against her chest, ignoring the loud ringing in her ears as Freya confirmed that Clementine had indeed filed a divorce against her.

She stared blindly at the documents instead because she knew, from the sudden coldness of his voice, she just knew that she couldn't stand a chance.

“I haven’t been feeling it for a while.”

She blinked and blinked, her lips parting to draw some oxygen in after it left her lungs in a painful rush.

No air.

There is no air here now.

“Okay. Okay,” she said, clearing the lump in her throat. “So you, like, don’t want to do this anymore? Don’t want to do us?"

He did not answer.

“Is there someone else?” she asked, hating the tremors in her words.

"No," he says quickly. "I'd never cheat, Iyah, you know that."

Tears scalded her eyes and they trickled down her cheeks before she could brush them away. Blinking furiously to bat away her tears, she gave him a healthy glare.

“Then why the hell are you filing a divorce?” she shouted.

Clement's eyes narrowed, and he leaned in, his words sharp as daggers. "Your cousin happened, Iyah. I made a promise, and I won't break it."

Freya's mind raced as she connected the dots. Her recently awakened cousin, a sudden burden on their marriage, had somehow led to this impending disaster.

"Clement, please!” “Freya ground out, her temper glowing hot. “We promised to support each other through thick and thin. This is just a rough patch."

Clement's frustration boiled over, and anger flashed in his eyes. "Ghad! What do you think of this awful marriage? Something fixable by a bloody band-aid? This isn't a rough patch, Iyah! This is you getting in the way of what I promised."

Tears welled up in Freya's eyes as she vehemently denied any wrongdoing. "I didn't cause the accident, Clement. You have to believe me!"

Clement, fueled by his anger, scoffed. His tone became more cutting, more merciless. "Believe you? When you're always at the center of chaos? I'm tired, Iyah. Tired of cleaning up after your messes, tired of living in constant turmoil."

He continued, his frustration turning into cruelty. "I can't bear it anymore. I never signed up for this, for a life of constant drama. I need peace, and I can't find it with you."

She felt it coming—that sharp but somehow hollow pain that blunted through her chest like the strike of a fist at the very center of her.

Freya, stunned by his harsh words, tried to reason. "But we can work through it. We always have."

Clement, his anger unabated, shook his head. "It's not that simple. You've dragged me into a life I never wanted. I need out, and if that means cutting ties with you, so be it."

"Please, Clement, don't do this. We can find another way.” Somehow, she hated the hopelessness in her voice, before whispering. “I love you.”

He did not seem to hear it. Or if he did, he clearly rejected it as his frustration was turning into a cruel dismissal, muttering, "Love isn't enough when it's drowning in chaos. Love isn't a magical fix when everything around us is falling apart. We're done, Iyah. I need a way out, and you can't be a part of my life anymore."

As he uttered those words, Freya sensed the finality in his tone, realizing that the path ahead held a painful separation she might not recover from.

Okay. Fine.

I gave up.

With trembling hands, Freya reached for the pen on the table, her fingers tracing the cold metal as if it held the key to salvation. The divorce papers lay before her, stark and final. The weight of the pen in her hand seemed to magnify the gravity of the moment, sealing the fate of a bond that had once felt unbreakable. She looked up at Clementine, eyes filled with pain, and signed the divorce papers.

When the signature was finally penned, Freya’s eyes remained fixed on the document for a lingering moment. It wasn't just ink on paper; it was the end of a chapter she had never anticipated closing.

Slowly, she looked up at the man she once loved with her all, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

"I need an hour." She paused. "To gather my things."

As Clement nodded, the room hung heavy with the realization of what had just transpired. "You can keep the villa if you want. It was always yours," he offered, attempting to extend a small semblance of comfort.

Freya, however, shook her head, rejecting the remnants of a life she no longer wished to claim.

"I don't want anything from you, Clementine."

The atmosphere shifted as Freya stepped away from the table, leaving the room that had witnessed the highs and lows of their shared existence. Each step towards their room was like a march through the corridors of defeat, the hollowness of the once-familiar space amplifying the echoes of their shattered love.

In their bedroom, the remnants of their life together seemed like a cruel joke to her. Clothes neatly hung; personal belongings scattered with familiarity. Each item told a story – a story that was now reaching its tragic conclusion. Freya gathered her things with a detachment that felt surreal, as if she were moving through the motions of someone else's life.

The echo of luggage wheels reverberated through the empty corridors, a haunting reminder of the life she was leaving behind. The once-warm home stood silent, its emptiness echoing the heartbreak that lingered in the air – a poignant testament to promises broken and love lost.

Freya hiccupped out a sob and step outside the villa. When she saw her car parked outside, she slammed its door and hastily inserted her keys, didn't even bother to heat the car's engine as she stomped her feet on the accelerator and drove away.

Her phone pinged with a notification and she saw a text from the jerk saying, 'Take care of yourself, Iyah.’

"Fuck you, Clementine von Iver."

She deleted the text with another curse and grabbed the steering wheel again only to realize that they were shaking wildly.

Freya dropped them back on her lap, and a little surge of panic settled because she suddenly could not see a thing, realizing she was in no state to drive.

And then, for some weird reason, that was when the tears come. All at once, they flood her eyes and are running down her cheeks as she made an ugly blubbering noise.

“Damn you, Clementine.”