Should I Ghost Him To Protect My Mental Health?

"You were just a tool, Imogene." Her heart stopped. "And I was foolish enough to believe you cared." *** Imogene Scott had always known her place—by Damien Shaw’s side, even when his love was a distant dream. Marrying her only because of an unexpected pregnancy, Damien’s affection never blossomed. Instead, her devotion turned him from a mere sales manager into the billionaire CEO of IMU, one of Europe’s most powerful tech empires. But her sacrifices weren’t enough. After losing their baby, Damien’s coldness deepened, sealing their marriage with an unspoken “no meddling” rule. Imogene’s reward? Watching Damien parade countless mistresses, all while she buried her own dreams to fuel his. She believed, naively, that one day he’d see her worth. But when he fell in love with her stepsister and served her with divorce papers, Imogene’s world shattered. Realizing she was nothing more than a pawn in Damien’s game, she vanished—pregnant and determined to protect her unborn child. Three years later, Imogene returns, not as the broken woman who fled but as a renowned artist and mother to their two-year-old daughter. Now, Damien realizes what he’s lost and wants her back. But this time, Imogene is ready to fight, and she’s not making the same mistake twice.

I dated my lawyer boyfriend for five years. He canceled our wedding. Fifty-two times. First time? His intern messed up some paperwork. He ditched me at the beach to fix it. I waited all day. Alone. Second time, we were mid-ceremony when he bolted. Heard that intern was getting heat from another lawyer and left me to face the guests and their stares. After that, every time we tried again, there was always some "emergency" with her. Always. I finally hit my limit. I was done. Packed up and broke it off. But the day I left Ainsley? He totally lost it trying to find me.

The day my daughter was rushed into emergency surgery after a car crash, Richard Herrera's ex, Grace Molina, came back to the country. I called Richard ninety-nine times. He rejected every single one. While Chloe was dying, Richard was shopping with Grace and her son, celebrating the boy's fifth birthday. Then the OR doors flew open. A nurse rushed out. "Mrs. Herrera? Your daughter is crashing. Sign this consent form now. Do you know where Dr. Herrera is? He's the best at this. If he operates, Chloe has a real shot. But we can't reach him." I covered my mouth before I fell apart. My hands shook as I signed. On the 110th call, Richard finally picked up. "Richard, Chloe's hurt. Only you can save her—" A kid's voice cut through the background. "Mr. Herrera, come on! The airplane ride won't start unless all three of us get on. Hurry!" "Selena, I'm handling something important. The hospital has doctors. They can deal with a minor injury. I have to go." Click. The line went dead. Right then, the OR light shut off. The doctor came out, wrecked and exhausted. He looked at me. Then slowly shook his head.

I was three months pregnant when our enemies ambushed me on a private drive in Manhattan’s East Side. A bullet punched through the window. Glass buried itself in my shoulder. With the last bit of strength I had, I hit the Moretti family’s encrypted distress signal and called my husband, Adrian Moretti, for help. He didn’t come. Later, I found out he had pulled the Moretti family’s best trauma surgeon and security detail away that night to stay with his old flame, Evelyn Langdon. She had just lost her husband. She was carrying his child. She said a nightmare had left her gasping for air. I lost our baby in the emergency room. When I woke up, the first thing I saw was Evelyn’s new post. [Some people don’t need to ask. He’ll still drop everything and come running. Thank you, A. You always know what I need most.] In the photo, Adrian was kneeling by her bed, fastening the ruby necklace around her throat. The same necklace he had promised me for our tenth anniversary. I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I called Professor Clark. “Professor, I’ll take the classified seat at the Artemis Northern Institute. Start the Black Ice Protocol. Wipe my public identity as soon as possible.”

The night before our wedding, Desmond Arlington got jumped out of nowhere. By the time I made it to the hospital, he stared at me like I was a total stranger. Doctor said it was memory loss—some brain rattle from the hit. Temporary, supposedly. So I went full nostalgia tour, dragging him back to all our spots, hoping something would click. Then one day at the hospital, I caught him running his mouth with his buddy. "Rhea's trying so hard. Doesn't that do anything for you?" "Do what? I'm over it. Same spots, same girl. The new ones are way more fun." "So why marry her? Just call it off and live your life." He snapped, "Shut up. I LOVE Rhea. I'd never bail on the wedding. I'm just... pushing it back a bit." I looked down at the test results—zero issues. Everything normal. And that's when it hit me: you can't help a faker.

When my wife's childhood friend's depression flared up again, she handed me divorce papers. I signed them without a fuss and told her I was leaving the country. She looked surprised, then seemed to figure it out. "So you're finally behaving? Realized your little tantrums won't work, so now you're trying something new to get me back? Fine. Go abroad. Stay out of Asher's sight so you don't trigger him. When he gets better, I'll come get you." I slipped off my wedding ring and handed it to her. My gaze fell to the jagged scar on my wrist. "No need," I said. "Let's just let each other go. Stop holding on."