The Year I Died Was When He Loved Me Most

Ten years. That's how long it took for pure love to curdle into pure hate. And now, Ethan Yates was handing me divorce papers.

"Ethan, I went to the hospital today, I—"

"The surgery failed, Nina." His voice could have frozen fire. "How I wish it was you going to die. You and that bitch mother of yours."

I looked down at the papers. He was walking away with nothing—no assets, no property. He'd rather be penniless than stay married to me one more day.

His eyes found the scar on my face. Nearly eight centimeters of raised, puckered skin.