Her first marriage lasted for two years and the two dated for seven years before tying the knot.
When it’s Meghan Markle, we know it would be spicy news. She married the prince of the UK and we can say they live a happy life as a couple away from England. Meghan had a real roller-coaster life starting as an actress and ending up as the prince’s wife.
Prince Harry and Meghan Markle decided to step away from the royal family and they have been in dispute for two years. It looks like things are beginning to cool off.
Their story started in 2016 when Harry was in love and a couple of months later, he took her to meet the Queen. Since she began to date Harry, swapped her career to adapt to royal life and no more than 12 months later they announced their engagement. They got married in May 2018.
Before the title of duces of Sussex, she was married to Trevor Engelson. He started the world of film working as a production assistant until he became a producer. They got married at the Jamaica Inn in Ocho Rios in Jamaica, a great ceremony for almost three days.
After all this, they both started working in different sets, and Trevor never visited her at her work. She had to move to Canada because of the Suit show. Meghan now started a new life without him by herself.
Her life changed over the years she moved to Toronto because now she hung out with other celebrities which distanced her from Trevor. Their relationship was unclear.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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