Six Years Trapped In A Broken Vow

Aliyah Pollard POV:

For six years, my husband, Chase, refused to divorce me, gaslighting me while he built a new family with his mistress, Faye. After 99 failed attempts, I was ready for my 100th try.

But the man I met in the park wasn't my cold, cheating husband. It was Chase from ten years ago-eighteen, idealistic, and still madly in love with me.

He didn't understand why I looked so sad, why I flinched from his touch. He didn't know about the affair, the miscarriage Faye caused, or the child they now had together.

He saw the divorce papers and his world shattered. "I would never hurt you, Aliyah," he cried, his young eyes filled with genuine anguish. "I love you."

His pain was a stark contrast to the cruelty of the man he would become. The older Chase had sneered, "You're mine, Aliyah. Who would want you?"

But this boy, this pure version of my husband, saw my suffering and didn't hesitate.

He took the pen, his hand shaking, and signed the papers his future self had refused for years. "If this is what you need," he whispered, "I'll do it."

Chapter 1

My life had become a broken record, skipping on the same devastating track for six long years. Six years of a marriage that was dead, but refused to lie down. Six years of watching the man I loved become a stranger. Six years of trying to escape him.

I had tried 99 times. Ninety-nine times, I pushed divorce papers across the table. Ninety-nine times, he smiled, crumbled them, or simply ignored them. He always said, "Aliyah, you're being dramatic. We're fine." But we weren't. We were a shipwreck, and I was the lone survivor clinging to a splintered mast.

Today was supposed to be number 100. The papers were crisp in my hand, a final, desperate plea for freedom. I walked into the park, the one we used to love, the one now tainted by memories. My head was down, rehearsing the words, the pleas, the arguments. Then I bumped into him. Hard.

He stumbled back, a broad, boyish grin instantly flashing across his face when he saw me. "Aliyah! What a surprise!" His eyes, bright and full of an unblemished joy I hadn't seen in years, crinkled at the corners. "Are you going to pretend you didn't see me?"

My breath hitched. It was Chase. My Chase. The one from a decade ago. Eighteen years old, overflowing with an idealism that hadn't yet been crushed, a love that hadn't curdled into poison. He looked exactly like the photos I still kept hidden in a dusty box. The photos of a life that never fully became reality.

He threw his arms around me, a spontaneous, warm embrace that felt alien and familiar all at once. "Gosh, I missed you today!" he mumbled into my hair. "Did you miss me?"

I stood stiff, the divorce papers a crinkling shield between us. My body remembered the feeling of his arms, the scent of his skin, but my mind screamed betrayal. This wasn't my husband. This was a ghost of the man he once was, a painful echo.

He pulled back, his hands still on my shoulders, his eyes searching mine. "Why do you look so... sad?" His thumb stroked my cheek. "Is everything okay? Are the kids causing trouble again?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. Kids. The word tore a fresh wound in my chest. Just last week, a glossy birth announcement had arrived in the mail. His child. With her. He expected me to confirm his assumption, his beautiful, innocent assumption. A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

"Kids?" I echoed, the word tasting like ash. "Yes, Chase. Everything's just wonderful. Happily married, beautiful kids, the whole dream." My voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.

His grin widened, oblivious. "I knew it! I always knew we'd make it. We were meant to be, Aliyah." He squeezed my shoulders. "So, what's with the papers, then? Work stuff?"

I held out the divorce papers, the words "Petition for Dissolution of Marriage" staring up at him in bold print. "Actually, these are yours to sign."

His smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. "Mine? What for? Is this some kind of prank?" He chuckled, but the sound was thin, unsure.

"No prank, Chase." My voice was steady, too steady. "Just sign them. Please."

His forehead furrowed, but his eyes still held that unwavering devotion. "Anything for you, Aliyah. You know that." He took the papers, his fingers brushing mine. They were soft, uncalloused, unlike the rough, indifferent hands of the man he would become. He pulled a pen from his backpack, its click echoing in the sudden silence. He started to sign the first page, his brow still slightly furrowed in confusion.

Then he stopped. His eyes scanned the document, moving from the bold title to the smaller print, then back to the title. His face drained of color, his jaw slacked, and the pen clattered to the ground. His hands trembled, crushing the papers he had so readily accepted.

"Divorce?" he whispered, the word barely audible. "What... what is this? Aliyah, what are you talking about? We're... we're married. Happily married, you just said." He looked up at me, his eyes wide with a raw, agonizing confusion. "Why? Why would we... why would I ever want to divorce you? I love you."

His genuine anguish, the sheer impossibility in his young eyes, was almost too much to bear. It twisted something inside me, a ghost of the love I once felt for him. This boy, this pure, untainted version of Chase, was everything the man he became wasn't. This boy would never hurt me. The man, however, had turned my world into a wasteland.

His words, "I love you," were like a knife. They belonged to him. The young, idealistic Chase Harris, who swore he'd always protect me, who saw a future filled with laughter and children, a cozy home by the sea. He was the man who would spend hours talking about our dream house, the one with a sprawling garden and a porch swing. He was the one who promised me forever, not just with words, but with every eager, hopeful glance.

The man he grew into, the 28-year-old Chase Harris, was a different story. He was still handsome, in a sharper, more defined way, but the light in his eyes had been replaced by a calculating gleam. His promises had dissolved into empty echoes, his love morphed into a possessive control.

"You really think I'd ever let you go?" he had sneered at me just last month, after I'd tried that round of divorce papers. "You're mine, Aliyah. Always have been, always will be. Where would you even go? Who would want you?" The words were cold, cutting, designed to diminish me, to make me believe I was nothing without him.

But this boy, standing before me now, was still pure. His eyes, though brimming with tears, held no malice, only profound hurt.

"Aliyah, please," he choked out, his voice cracking. "Tell me this isn't real. Tell me this is a nightmare."

I watched him, felt a pang of something akin to pity, but mostly, a deep, weary resolve. There was no turning back.

"It's real, Chase," I said, my voice flat. "It's very real."

He shook his head, frantically wiping at his eyes. "But why? What did I do? What happened to us?" He clung to the papers as if they were a lifeline, even as they threatened to tear him apart. "Did I... did I fall out of love with you? That's impossible. I could never."

I closed my eyes for a moment, the memories flooding back, sharp and unwelcome. It wasn't a sudden fall, but a slow, insidious decay. It started with subtle shifts, a new junior colleague at his firm, Faye Williams. Ambitious, alluring, and seemingly vulnerable.

"She's brilliant, Aliyah," Chase had said, his voice laced with an admiration I hadn't heard directed at me in years. "And so fragile. She really looks up to me."

I, foolishly, had smiled and encouraged him. "That's wonderful, honey. It's good to be a mentor." I trusted him implicitly then. He was my rock, my safe harbor.

But the lunches grew longer, the late nights more frequent. He started missing our dinner dates, our movie nights. He'd come home smelling faintly of a floral perfume that wasn't mine.

One year, on our anniversary, he canceled our dinner plans, citing an urgent crisis at work that only Faye could help him with. I dressed up anyway, waiting for hours, until a text message pinged on my phone: "Sorry, babe. Faye needed me. Be home late. Don't wait up." He knew how much our anniversary meant to me. He just... didn't care anymore.

When I confronted him, he dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand. "Aliyah, don't be so dramatic. You're my wife. You're secure. Faye needs my support. You're strong enough to understand that, aren't you?" He' d called me understanding, mature. It had felt like a compliment then, a badge of honor. Now, it was just another tool in his gaslighting arsenal.

Our arguments became commonplace, a dull soundtrack to our crumbling home. My questions were met with accusations. "You're being irrational, Aliyah. So paranoid. What's gotten into you?"

If I dared to point out the obvious - his increasingly distant behavior, the lingering scent of her perfume, the late-night calls he took in hushed tones - he' d turn it back on me. "Faye has a tough life, Aliyah. Her family situation is complicated. She needs a friend. Are you so selfish that you begrudge her even that?"

I withered under his constant barrage, my confidence eroding like sand in a storm. My spirit, once so vibrant, felt like a tattered flag, barely clinging to its pole. It wasn't until I found the texts, explicit and undeniable, that the full horror of his betrayal truly sunk in.

His phone lay unlocked on the counter. A flood of messages from Faye, detailing secret rendezvous, pet names, inside jokes. And photos. Photos of them, laughing, intimate, in places he'd told me he was "working late." My hands shook so violently I almost dropped the phone.

When I confronted him with the evidence, he didn't deny it. He exploded. "How dare you invade my privacy, Aliyah! You're sick, you know that? Obsessive! You went through my phone like a common thief!" He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. "You're losing your mind!"

I looked in the mirror that night, my reflection a pale, gaunt stranger with haunted eyes. He had convinced me, or almost convinced me, that I was the problem. That my suspicions were unfounded, my pain exaggerated. But the texts, the physical evidence, they shattered his lies. I finally saw him for what he was. A liar. A cheat. A manipulator. That night, the word "divorce" solidified in my mind, not as a threat, but as my only escape.

But he wouldn't let me go. "I won't let you make a rash decision, Aliyah," he'd said, tearing up the papers. "You're emotional. You're not thinking straight."

The truth was, he didn't want the scandal. He didn't want to lose face, or the comfortable life I provided for him. He wanted to keep me trapped, a silent, suffering trophy wife while he continued his sordid affair.

Then, the ultimate humiliation. A picture, posted publicly on Faye' s social media: a baby' s tiny hand clutching Chase' s finger. A diamond ring sparkling on her own finger. The caption read, "Our little family is complete. So blessed to have my two loves." The world saw it before I did. My husband. Our home. Another woman. Another child. And he still refused to sign the divorce papers.

The young Chase, still gripping the crumpled divorce papers, stared at me, his face a mask of horror. "This... this can't be true. I would never... I would never do that to you, Aliyah. I swear!" He was shaking, a raw, gut-wrenching sound escaping his throat. "Please, tell me it's not me. Tell me I don't become that man."

He tried to find an excuse, a sliver of hope. "Maybe... maybe there's a misunderstanding? Maybe I was coerced? Manipulated?" He looked at me, desperate for me to agree, for me to tell him his future self wasn't a monster.

But my weary silence, the deep, hollow ache in my chest, was answer enough. His shoulders slumped, the futile hope draining from his face. His blue eyes, once so full of light, clouded over with despair. He crumpled to the ground, tears streaming down his face, genuine, heartbroken tears.

My old self, the Aliyah who fell in love with him, would have rushed to comfort him. But that Aliyah was long gone, buried under years of betrayal and gaslighting. Still, a strange tightness in my throat made me pause.

"There's a 30-day cooling-off period after you file," I said softly, the legal jargon a stark contrast to his raw emotion. "If you sign them, they'll be filed. After that, we just wait a month, and then it's final."

He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed, clinging to my words like a drowning man to a life raft. A month. Thirty days. For him, it was an eternity of dread. For me, it was the countdown to freedom.

"Are you going to sign them, Chase?" I asked, my voice calm, but with an underlying steel.

He took a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on the papers in his hand. He picked up the pen, his hand still trembling. He looked at me one last time, a silent plea in his eyes, but found no comfort there.

His signature, bold and clear, appeared on the dotted line. The ink bled slightly as a tear fell, a stark, wet stain on the official document. His future self had refused for years, but this idealistic young man, in his unwavering love for me, had signed them in less than a minute.

"I still don't understand," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "but if this is what you need... I'll do it. Just tell me... what happened to make me this way?"

I looked at the young, heartbroken face, then down at the signed papers. The cooling-off period had begun. The beginning of my end, and perhaps, his beginning.

Aliyah Pollard POV: