She thought she escaped him — until she learned she was his final sacrifice.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
She stood in the middle of the road, arms outstretched, chin tilted to the sky, laughing like a woman possessed. Cars slowed, rubbernecking at the sight of her joy, but she didn’t care.
After eight years of grey skies and second-guessing her sanity, she was finally free.
Divorced. Legally. Completely. Irrevocably free.
She hadn’t seen the signs at first.
That was the part that shamed her most.
It started so subtly, like fog slipping under a door.
He had this way of making her feel like she needed to earn his love.
First, with compliments. Then with apologies. Then with money.
He would joke that women should do the chasing nowadays. “It’s empowering,” he said, leaning back with that smug half-smile, letting her pick up the tab again.
She laughed at first — until the jokes calcified into expectations.
Until she realized she was always the one apologizing, planning, fixing, and paying.
And still, it was never enough.
The first time he asked her for a receipt—for groceries, no less—after they were married, she stared at him in disbelief.
“Just for transparency,” he said smoothly, looking at his phone. “It’s just how I keep track of shared expenses.”
Except she noticed he never offered up his receipts. Never paid half the rent.
Never cared that the emotional balance sheet of their marriage had her overdrawn in every possible way.
She told herself she was being unfair. He had a tough childhood, she reasoned. But so did she.
Worse, hers came back to visit every time he dismissed her feelings with that same glazed look her mother used to wear when she cried as a child.
“Too sensitive,” they both said.
When the pandemic hit and he sabotaged her job, mocking her for losing the income, she was the one who had to ask for help.
Her hands had trembled as she asked him for a loan. Her husband.
He leaned back, folded his arms, and asked for a detailed repayment plan. “It’s just responsible,” he said, like he was teaching her a lesson.
That was the day she first said it aloud.
“He doesn’t love me.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo.
It was just a truth she quietly folded and placed in the back of her mind, like a torn letter.
Even then, she stayed.
Trauma had taught her that love looked like this: conditional, elusive, and sharp-edged.
But freedom, it turned out, had a different sound.
It was her laughter echoing down a quiet suburban street. It was the clack of a court stamp and the thud of a door closing behind her for good.
It was the silence that followed—and her choice of what came next.
§§§§§
She thought it was over.
The papers were signed. The name was scratched from the mailbox.
She had made peace with the silence. Even learned to enjoy it.
But the silence didn’t last.
He came back.
Not in body—not at first—but in emojis, in “Hey, just thinking about you,” in links to music they used to share. In voice notes, sugar-laced with nostalgia and longing.
He said he missed their talks. Said she was the only one who ever really understood him.
And after eight years of legal ties and emotional debris, it was easy to believe it.
To want to believe it. Trauma has a memory, and his voice still knew the backroads of her mind.
They talked. Cautiously at first. Like two diplomats navigating old ruins.
He seemed changed. Softer.
He called it “awakening.” He spoke of healing, of spiritual things. Crystals. Synchronicities. Soul contracts.
They had always bonded over the esoteric, but now, something felt off.
Performative. Like he was mirroring her growth, not living it.
Still, she convinced herself they could be friends.
After all, hadn’t she forgiven him? Hadn’t she risen above?
But then came the dreams. Distorted, oily visions.
One night, she saw him in a dark cloak, chanting. Another, he stood over her body, her spirit watching from the ceiling.
She woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, her room filled with a metallic stench that wasn’t there the night before.
And then, her guides began to speak. Urgently. Clearly.
He’s not alone.
She is with him.
They’ve been watching you.
Details began to surface like bubbles in murky water.
He had moved in with another woman. Had never mentioned her.
She found a fake marriage certificate online—her name used without consent, filed under a jurisdiction she’d never lived in.
Insurance claims had been made. Medical records forged. And someone had been asking around about her allergies.
She felt her knees buckle under the weight of it all.
He hadn’t returned to make amends.
He had returned to complete a ritual.
His spiritual talk was camouflage. He’d joined a cult—one that masked itself in light but operated in inversion.
He wasn’t her soulmate. He was her handler. And she was meant to be their sacrifice.
But something stood in their way.
Her spirit.
Her protection.
One night, after a dream where her grandmother stood between her and a shadowy figure with no face, she awoke knowing exactly what to do.
She blocked him. Everywhere. She blocked his partner. Then her cousin. Then her uncle and his family.
Anyone whose eyes lingered too long, spoke in circles, made her gut twist with unease.
Then the police came to her with the evidence – texts, emails, surveillance footage. A breadcrumb trail of sick intent laid bare.
The court ruled in her favor. Restraining orders. Charges.
What saved her wasn’t just the law. It was her knowing. Her lineage. Her refusal to dismiss the voice that said, Run.
She didn’t just escape.
She survived the sacrifice.
And now, she walks with fire in her bones.
Because when the devil knocks in soft words and familiar faces, she no longer answers.
She remembers who she is.
§§§§§
