After my divorce, I erased the woman I used to be. I didn’t want revenge. I didn’t want attention. I just wanted to survive.
My name is Hannah Cole. When my husband Mark left me for his coworker Lydia, he didn’t just take off with my heart—he walked away with our house, most of our savings, and the version of me I recognized in the mirror. The court called the settlement “fair.” Somehow, that meant I got the debt and a tiny, cramped apartment.
So I vanished.
I cut my hair, dyed it darker, stopped wearing makeup, and became a night-shift taxi driver in Chicago. Long hours. Brief conversations. Faces I’d never see again. The anonymity was everything.
Three months in, on a rainy Thursday night, I picked up two passengers outside a downtown hotel. They slid into my cab laughing, deep in conversation. I didn’t check the mirror at first—then I heard his laugh.
Mark. And Lydia.
They didn’t recognize me. I was just another driver.
“You really think she believed it?” Lydia asked.
“Of course,” Mark said. “She always trusted me.”
Trusted.
My stomach twisted. They went on, laughing about hidden offshore accounts, buried money, and how I was “too emotional” to ever catch on.
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