My Commander Ex Divorced Me Then I Became Out of His League Chapter 03

My Commander Ex Divorced Me Then I Became Out of His League Chapter 03

I opened the decree, flipped to the last page, and wrote three strokes on the respondent’s signature line—

Sloane Whitmore.

Helen’s mouth opened, then closed.

This was clearly not the outcome she’d expected.

“You’re… you’re sure?”

I handed the pen back and smiled.

“I’m sure.”

Helen stared at those three strokes for a long moment. Her expression shifted several times.

She probably thought I’d react the way I did last time. Sobbing hysterically. Refusing to agree.

Because in everyone’s eyes, Sloane’s greatest value was being Gavin Whitmore’s wife.

Without the marriage, I was nothing.

What they didn’t know—

In my last life, before I married Gavin, I ranked first in my class at Crestwood University School of Medicine.

My mentor, Professor Harrison Shaw, was one of the country’s leading cardiothoracic surgeons.

He said I was the most gifted student he’d ever seen. He said I was destined to become a top-tier surgeon.

But I threw it all away for Gavin Whitmore.

Withdrew from school. Got married. Followed him from base to base.

I turned myself into an accessory.

This life, I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Helen tucked the signed papers into her briefcase and stood. She glanced back at me.

“Sloane, don’t take this too personal. The unit’s gonna make sure you’re taken care of.”

“Thanks, Helen. But I don’t need taking care of.”

I swung my legs off the bed, pulled on my shoes, and walked to the window.

Outside, the bare sycamore branches swayed in the winter wind.

In my last life, I watched those trees for thirty years while I waited.

This life, I was walking out of this compound.

Less than half an hour after Helen left, the door swung open again.

I knew this visitor, too.

Martha Whitmore.

Gavin’s mother.

My former mother-in-law.

She wore a dark navy coat, her hair combed back into an immaculate twist. The look on her face was somewhere between satisfaction and disdain.

But I knew it was satisfaction.

Because she’d never liked me. Not once.

“I heard you signed.” Martha settled into the chair and crossed her legs. “More decisive than I figured you’d be.”

I said nothing.

“Good.” She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and spread it on the table. “Now that it’s done, we need to get a few things clear.”

I glanced at the paper.

It was a list.

The base housing—that goes back to the Whitmore family.

All household savings, a little over four thousand dollars—back to the Whitmore family.

The washer-dryer set, the mountain bike, the flat-screen—the three big-ticket items—back to the Whitmore family.

And the pair of mahogany hope chests I brought with me when we got married—back to the Whitmore family.

Then, buried at the very bottom, one last line: Sloane Ashford may take her personal belongings when she leaves.

I finished reading and lifted my gaze to her.

Martha kept her composure. “I’m not trying to cheat you. You can take your clothes and your books. Everything else in the house—don’t even think about it. It was all purchased with my son’s military pay.”

In my previous life, I’d never seen this list.

Because in my previous life, I’d never signed. I’d stayed in that house, even though it had never held an ounce of warmth.

But if I had signed, Martha would have produced this exact same document.

The old me would have cried. Would have argued. When we got married, we didn’t have two nickels to rub together. I bought that sewing machine with my own paycheck. Half of what’s in that account came from money I earned.

But this life—

“Fine.”

I nodded.

Martha blinked.

She clearly hadn’t expected me to be this agreeable.

“You… you agree?”

“Yes. Everything you said is correct.”

I walked to the bed and opened my cloth bag—the one I’d packed when I was admitted, with a few changes of clothes.

One piece at a time, I folded them and packed them away.

“I don’t want any of those things. The house, either.”

I picked up the bag and walked toward the door.

As I passed Martha, I stopped.

“Martha. There’s something I’ve been holding in for a very long time.”

I met her eyes.

“Your son owes me a debt he’ll never repay in this lifetime.”

Martha’s face twisted.

“What’s that supposed to mean? The divorce is final and you’re still trying to cling to our family?”

I smiled. Didn’t answer. Pushed the door open and walked out.

At the end of the corridor, I nearly collided with someone.

Tall. Beautiful. Wearing a crisp, perfectly tailored uniform with a Second Lieutenant insignia pinned to the collar.

Nova Pierce.

The female aide-de-camp from the rumors in my previous life.

This time, I finally saw her face clearly at this point in the timeline.

She stood in the hallway holding a bouquet of white lilies. Her expression was carefully arranged—no, complicated.

“You’re… Sloane?” Her voice was soft, deliberately fragile. “I heard you were in the hospital, so I came to see how you’re holding up.”

She stood in the hallway holding a bouquet of white lilies—like she’d grabbed the first thing at the grocery store without thinking.

Her expression was carefully arranged—no, complicated.

I looked at the flowers in her hand, then at the meticulously rehearsed concern on her face.

In my last life, I’d never known her. By the time I learned her name, I was already past fifty.

Someone told me then that Nova had been assigned to Gavin as an aide-de-camp at eighteen. She’d followed him from regiment command all the way to military district headquarters.

Her father was Victor Pierce. Gavin’s former commanding officer.

Her connections, her capability, her age—she was a better fit in every way.

I used to believe that the whole “command-directed separation” thing was really just about operational necessity.

But in my last life, near the very end, in a hospital corridor, I’d overheard Mandy on the phone. “That whole divorce thing back then—Nova was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes. She had someone file the report up the chain. My mother helped, too.”

I hadn’t heard the rest.

Because by then, I was already dying.

But I remembered it.

Every word.

So now, standing in that corridor, looking at this young, beautiful woman, catching the flash of smugness behind her eyes—I felt no hatred.

Only cold.

Bone-deep cold.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

I took the bouquet of white lilies from her hands, walked two steps, and then—

Dropped them into the trash can at the end of the hall.

“Sorry. I don’t like lilies.”