I, Ethan Miller, a middle-aged American man, almost jumped for joy when I received that email. The subject line was simply: “I miss you… and I want you back.” The sender? Sarah, my ex-wife.

We divorced three years ago, an amicable but regretful parting. She remarried a year later to a man named Mark, a tall, quiet construction worker. Although I tried to move on, I never truly forgot Sarah. She was my sun.

“What are you going to do?” my best friend, Jake, asked over the phone.

I grinned, my voice choked with emotion: “What am I going to do? I’m going to say Yes, of course! This is a second chance, Jake. I’ve been waiting for this.”

The first meeting took place at her apartment on a Saturday night. The apartment was dingier and messier than I remembered, but when Sarah opened the door, my heart still raced. She was wearing a loose, oversized sweater and jeans, her blonde hair covering most of her face.

“Have you told Mark yet?” I asked, whispering.

Sarah didn’t look me in the eye; she just shook her head and forced a smile: “Not yet, Ethan. I… I wanted to be sure about us first.” She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around me. The familiar scent of her perfume made every doubt vanish.

“I’m so glad, Sarah. So, so glad.”

After talking for a long time, reminiscing about old memories and things we wished we had done differently, Sarah took my hand and led me into the bedroom. The room was dim, lit only by the soft yellow glow of the bedside lamp.

“I… I don’t want to wait anymore, Ethan,” she whispered, her voice full of longing, yet her eyes held a strange anxiety.

“Me neither,” I replied, my heart pounding with a mixture of joy and suppressed excitement.

I stepped closer, starting to unbutton my shirt. Sarah turned her back to me, slowly pulling the bulky sweater over her head. As the garment dropped to the floor, that moment extinguished the elation within me, replacing it with a cold dread and extreme fear.

I was utterly terrified.

Sarah’s back, her shoulders, and her bare arms were crisscrossed with injuries. Not old scars. They were large, fresh bruises, deep blue and purple, staining her pale skin like horrific streaks of ink. Some were shaped like fingers or long welts. They were so numerous that there was barely a patch of skin untouched.

I took a step back.

“Sarah… what happened to you?” My voice broke, no longer the sound of a lover, but the cry of a panicked man.

She froze, instinctively crossing her arms over her chest. Tears welled up in her eyes as she turned to face me; the happy smile from earlier was gone, replaced only by pain and shame.

“I… I tripped… at Mark’s construction site,” she mumbled, but the words were too weak and implausible to accept.

I walked closer, my hand trembling as I gently touched a large bruise on her shoulder. She flinched in pain.

“Don’t lie to me, Sarah,” I said, my voice low and cold. “These are not tripping injuries. Your new husband did this, didn’t he?“

Her tears burst forth. She sank down, beginning to sob uncontrollably, and finally, the truth spilled out through her weeping: “I’m afraid of him, Ethan. Please, help me… I have nowhere else to go. I just thought if I told you I wanted to come back to you…”

In that moment, I understood everything. My celebration was just a trap. Sarah wasn’t looking for love; she was looking for escape and refuge. She didn’t want me… she wanted my safety.

I knelt beside her, wrapping my arms around her trembling, bruised body. Now, my fear had morphed into a cold rage toward Mark, and a fierce determination to protect the woman I loved.

The joy of remarriage had vanished, replaced by an urgent mission.