For three years, my husband spent every weekend night fishing with his female coworker. I’d screamed. I’d smashed things. He’d just looked at me, his voice dripping with righteousness. “We’re just fishing. Do you have to act like a complete psycho?” He was even baiting her fishing spot the day I miscarried. All he said was, “There’s nothing going on between us. You’re disgusting.” In the fourth year, I stopped checking up on him. I started leaving early and coming home late, wearing a new, expensive perfume every day. At first, he sneered. “Playing the independent woman now? This is just another one of your games, isn't it?” But then he came home late one night, fishing gear in hand, to a house stripped bare, even the furniture gone. That’s when he finally panicked. When he called, his voice was trembling. “Where the hell are you in the middle of the night?” Listening to his impotent rage, I replied, my voice a lazy drawl. “So, it's okay for you to go ‘fishing’ with your coworker, but I can't go ‘hunting’ with someone else?” 01 My hand was still shaking after I signed the consent form. The doctor glanced at me, her voice flat. “Where’s your family?” “He’s… busy.” “Then you’ll have to go in alone.” The cold metal slid inside me, and my body seized with a pain so sharp it stole my breath. As my consciousness faded, I found myself back three years ago, on that first weekend. Mark was heading out the door, carrying his tackle box for the first time. “Where are you going?” “Company thing. A few of us are going fishing at the reservoir.” I didn’t think anything of it. I even packed sunscreen and lunch for him. He came back beaming, showing me pictures. In a large group of people, a girl named Tiffany stood next to him, her smile brilliant. Soon, the company outing became a weekly event. Then, the large group dwindled, until it was just him and Tiffany. Every weekend, from Friday night until the early hours of Sunday morning. A knot of unease started to form in my stomach. “Why is it always her?” “She’s the only other one who’s into fishing. We’re just friends, what are you thinking?” Then I saw the post on Tiffany's Instagram. “Thanks to my best bud Mark for another great catch! The night breeze by the lake is amazing.” It was a nine-photo grid. Every shot was a profile of Mark, silhouetted against the water, plus a picture of two glowing fishing bobbers floating close together. I shoved the phone in his face. He snatched it from my hand and threw it onto the sofa. “What is wrong with you? We’re just fishing! Do you have to be so hysterical?” “There is nothing going on between us. We have nothing to hide. Can’t you get your mind out of the gutter for once?” From that day on, “hysterical,” “disgusting,” and “crazy” became my labels. I screamed. I smashed his precious fishing gear. All it got me was colder shoulders and longer absences. “If you keep this up,” he warned, “we’re done.” I was scared. So I learned to swallow it. I told myself I was being too sensitive, that it was just his hobby. I even started helping him pack for his night fishing trips. Mosquito repellent, hand warmers, a thermos filled with hot coffee. The impatience on his face finally began to soften. “See? This is much better. Trust and personal space are the most important things in a marriage.” I clung to those words, fooling myself for another year. Until I got pregnant. The doctor said it was a high-risk pregnancy. I needed bed rest, preferably with a family member around. I clutched Mark’s sleeve, begging him. “Please, don’t go this weekend. Stay home with me.” He frowned. “I already made plans with Tiffany. She’s already reserved the spot. It wouldn’t be right to bail.” “But the doctor said…” “The doctor’s just trying to scare you. You’re not that fragile.” He pried my fingers off his arm. “Look, I’ll be back early on Sunday.” And he left. Saturday afternoon, the cramping started. A sharp, pulling pain deep in my belly. I lay in bed, afraid to move, and called him. The first call went to voicemail. The second one connected. “Yeah?” He sounded annoyed. I could hear the wind and a woman’s laughter in the background. “Mark, I’m in so much pain… please, come home…” “Pain? How much pain can it be? You’re just freaking yourself out.” Over the line, Tiffany’s voice came through, clear as day. “Mark, who is that? Is your wife checking up on you again? You should be nicer to her, you don’t want her getting the wrong idea about us.” Her voice was sugary sweet, laced with a giggle. Mark’s tone immediately softened when he spoke to her. “It’s nothing. You just focus on baiting the spot. The wind’s picking up, the fish should be biting soon.” Then, his voice turned to ice as he spoke back into the phone. “I’m busy! You’re a grown woman. If you don’t feel well, go to the hospital. Stop calling me!” Click. He hung up. Blood trickled down my thighs, staining the white sheets crimson. I struggled out of bed and dialed 911. Lying on the cold operating table, the chill of the anesthesia seeped into my bones. The doctor’s face was impassive. “We couldn’t save the baby. Three months along. It was a boy.” “Your health is poor. It… it might be difficult for you to conceive again.” I couldn’t cry. My chest felt like a hollow cavern with an icy wind whistling through it. I took out my phone and, with the last of my strength, sent Mark a text. “I had a miscarriage.” The screen stayed lit for a long, long time, with no reply. I don’t know how much time passed. Just as I was about to drift off, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Mark. It was an update to Tiffany’s Instagram story. A photo of her and Mark by the reservoir, a huge net between them, teeming with writhing fish. The caption read: “What a haul! The luck is always insane when I’m with Mark!” Below it, I saw that Mark had liked the post. Five minutes ago. My text message still sat in our chat, unread. In that moment, staring at the sterile, white light on the ceiling, I started to laugh. Olivia, you are such a pathetic fool. These four years have been a joke. After I was wheeled out of the operating room, a nurse handed me a bill. “You need to go settle this.” I looked at the amount and my head spun. I didn’t have my wallet. I had no choice but to dial that number I knew by heart one more time. It rang for a long time before he picked up. “What now?!” The rage in his voice practically burst through the speaker. “I’m at the hospital. I don’t have enough money, can you…” “Are you fucking kidding me?!” he cut me off. “I told you, we’re fishing! Fishing! Do you not understand English? It’s Tiffany’s birthday today, we’re all celebrating! Can you not be such a buzzkill?!” “Her birthday?” I whispered. “Yes, her birthday! We got a cake, we’re right by the lake! Do you have to ruin everything right now? It’s just money, right? I’ll send it to you! Just stop calling me, you’re so damn disgusting!” The line went dead again. A moment later, a notification. A five-hundred-dollar transfer. With a two-word memo: “Shut up.” I stared at those words, and the last bit of warmth drained from my body. I didn't accept the money. I used the last of my credit on my phone to pay the bill. Alone, I braced myself against the wall and slowly walked out of the hospital. The night air cut against my face like a razor. I looked up at the moon. It was full and bright. Mark. Tiffany. I repeated their names, syllable by syllable. From this day on, I’m no longer the “hysterical” Olivia who revolves around you. What you owe me, I will take back. Every last cent, with interest. 02 I sat on a bench outside the hospital all night. At dawn, I took a cab home. The house was empty. On the coffee table sat the thermos and hand warmers I’d prepared for him. Next to them, a pile of his dirty clothes. Everything was exactly as I’d left it. It was as if yesterday’s heart-wrenching agony had been nothing but a hallucination. I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. Half of it was mine: simple, elegant clothes. The other half was his: a collection of outdoor brands, tactical jackets, and fishing gear. Tucked in the very back was the tuxedo and wedding dress from our wedding day. I stared at that white gown for a long time. Then, I picked up my phone and made the first call. “Hey, Sophie? It’s me.” Sophie was my best friend, a take-no-prisoners lawyer. “Liv? What’s wrong? You don’t sound right.” “I had a miscarriage.” Three seconds of silence on the other end, followed by a surge of contained fury. “Where is that bastard Mark?!” “Out fishing with his ‘little sister’.” “Fuck!” Sophie swore. “Give me his location. I’m going to go skin him alive!” “Don’t,” I cut her off, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Sophie, I want a divorce.” Sophie was stunned. She knew better than anyone how much I loved Mark. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” I looked out at the gray, dreary sky. “I’ve been sure since yesterday afternoon.” “Okay,” Sophie snapped into work mode. “Don’t panic. Don’t do anything. Wait for me to get there. Division of assets, evidence of his infidelity—we need a solid plan.” “Evidence…” I gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t have any.” For four years, I’d been a fool, so focused on fighting with him that I never thought to protect myself. “Doesn’t matter,” Sophie’s voice was steady. “If we don’t have direct evidence, we’ll build a chain of circumstantial evidence. Listen to me. From this moment on, you need to become a completely different person.” After the call, I sat on the cold floor and began to think. Sophie was right. What I wanted wasn't to stand in a courtroom, crying and begging for a pittance in compensation. I wanted his life in ruins. I wanted him to feel a fraction of the pain I’d endured for four years. I wanted him to watch as I personally tore down everything he held dear. I got up and started moving. First step: assets. I opened my laptop and logged into our online banking. All these years, both our salaries went into a joint account that I managed. Mark was careless. He never asked about it. “The money’s with you, I’m not worried,” he’d always say. Looking back, it wasn’t that he trusted me. He just didn’t care. I looked at the balance. Seven figures. Our entire life savings, built from nothing. Without a moment’s hesitation, I started transferring half of it into a separate account under my mother’s name. Next, I found our stock portfolio. Mark had bought most of them, bragging about some inside tip that was a sure thing. I looked at the sea of red on the screen and let out a cold smirk. Sell. All of it. At market price. I didn't care about the losses. Once that was done, I made a second call. A moving company. “Hello, I’d like to schedule a move.” “Of course, ma’am. When would you like to schedule it for? Do you have a lot of items?” “Next Saturday. And yes… a lot.” I looked around the home I had so carefully built. “Everything but the floor and the ceiling, I want it all gone.” “And especially, a six-foot-tall glass display cabinet.” That cabinet held Mark’s most prized possessions: his complete set of limited-edition fishing rods and lures. Every single one of them was more valuable to him than my wedding dress, which was currently stuffed in the back of the closet. The next week passed in a strange state of calm. On Sunday afternoon, Mark finally came home. He carried his empty tackle box, looking exhausted, and brought with him the faint scent of a perfume. Tiffany’s favorite. He saw me sitting on the couch and froze. He was probably expecting the usual interrogation, the tears. “You’re back?” I even managed a small smile. He looked uneasy as he set his gear by the wall. “Yeah, I’m back.” He was waiting for me to explode. But I didn’t. I stood up and walked into the kitchen. “You must be hungry. I’ll make you some pasta.” He followed me, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are you… okay?” “I’m fine.” I poured the pasta into a bowl, adding a fried egg on top. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I placed the bowl in front of him. “Eat up. You should get some rest.” He picked up his fork but didn’t eat, his gaze fixed on me. “Olivia, what game are you playing now?” I looked up, meeting his eyes with a gentle smile. “No game. I’ve just had some time to think.” “Think about what?” “That trust and personal space are the most important things in a marriage, right?” I threw his own words back at him. “I was too clingy before, always trying to keep you tied down. I won’t be like that anymore. You have your hobbies, and I support you.” Mark’s expression shifted from wary to confused, and finally, to a look of smug relief. He thought he had finally tamed me. He thought I had finally accepted my fate. He dug into his pasta, eating ravenously. “That’s more like it,” he said, his mouth full. “If you’d just thought like this from the start, we could have avoided so many fights.” “Tiffany is always telling me I should spend more time with you, that you must be lonely at home by yourself. I told her you just overthink things.” He rambled on as he ate. I listened quietly, a perfect smile plastered on my face. Inside, I was counting down the days. Enjoy this peace while it lasts, Mark. The storm is coming. 03 From that day on, I changed. I stopped checking his phone, stopped asking where he was. When he went out for his weekend fishing trips, I would even help him clean his gear beforehand and clear out the trunk of the car. At first, Mark reveled in my 180-degree turn. He could talk loudly on the phone with Tiffany at home, discussing which reservoir had the best fish. He could like and comment on her latest Instagram post right in front of me. He savored the feeling of being in complete control. And I just smiled and nodded. “That’s nice.” “Have fun.” “Do you need me to pack anything for you?” A hint of contempt began to creep into his eyes. He believed I had completely given up. A pathetic woman who couldn’t live without him. Meanwhile, my own life was quietly transforming. I threw out all the plain, muted clothes in my closet. I replaced them with sharp, brightly colored power suits. I started using the supplementary credit card Mark had given me to buy things I never would have dared to before. Handbags that cost thousands, perfumes that cost hundreds. Every morning, I’d leave the house wearing a scent he couldn’t possibly name, my makeup flawless. I’d come home late. Sometimes, with the smell of alcohol on my breath. Mark finally started to notice something was wrong. That weekend, as he was getting ready to leave, he saw me standing in front of the mirror, putting on earrings with a little black dress. “You’re going out again?” he asked, frowning. “Mhm, meeting up with some friends.” “Male or female?” I met his gaze in the mirror and smiled. “Mark, we agreed, remember? Mutual trust, personal space.” My words left him speechless, his face turning a dark shade of red. “Don’t you dare use my own words against me! Olivia, something’s been off with you lately!” “Oh?” I turned to face him. “What’s off?” “Who are you dressing up for? Who are you screwing around with, coming home so late every night?” The suspicion and jealousy in his eyes were practically burning. I laughed coldly to myself. He could spend his nights with a female coworker, but he couldn't stand the thought of me having a life of my own. The hypocrisy was laughable. “It’s just a normal social life,” I said, picking up my purse. “Weren’t you heading out? If you don’t leave soon, you’ll miss the best spot.” I started to walk past him towards the door. He grabbed my wrist, his grip shockingly tight. “Stop pretending to be some independent woman! Do you think your measly salary pays for all this? Tell me! Did you find some rich guy to latch onto?” His fingers dug into my wrist, but I didn’t flinch. I just looked at him calmly. “You’re hurting me.” My composure only fueled his rage. “Answer my question!” “Every penny I spend is clean,” I said, enunciating each word. “But you, Mark, can you say the same about you and Tiffany?” He reacted like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Why are you bringing her up again? There is nothing going on between us! You’re the one who’s disgusting me right now!” There it was again. That word. “Disgusting.” It used to feel like a knife to the heart. Now, I just felt numb. My phone rang. I pulled my arm free and answered. “Hello, Mr. Peterson.” A warm, male voice came from the other end. “Ms. Scott, about that position we discussed, the CEO of the company would like to meet you in person. Are you free sometime tomorrow?” “Yes,” I said, my voice bubbling with excitement. “Of course.” “That’s wonderful. I’ll send you the restaurant details shortly. This is an incredible opportunity; they’re very serious about bringing you on.” “Thank you, Mr. Peterson. Thank you so much.” I hung up, a smile still on my face. Mark was staring at me, his eyes practically murderous. “Mr. Peterson? Sounds pretty friendly.” “He’s a friend.” “A friend?” he sneered. “Or your sugar daddy? Olivia, I underestimated you. Playing hard to get while you were already lining up your next meal ticket?” I didn’t bother explaining. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. In his world, a woman was always dependent on a man. If I left him, it must be because I had found someone else to cling to. He couldn't imagine that a woman could build a better life for herself, by herself. “Think whatever you want.” I opened the door. “I’m leaving. Hope you get a great haul tonight.” The door clicked shut behind me. I heard a loud crash from inside, the sound of something shattering. I leaned against the door and took a deep breath. Sophie’s plan was falling into place. This “Mr. Peterson” was a top-tier headhunter she had introduced me to. I wasn’t looking for another man. I was looking for a job that would let me leave this city for good and start a new life. A new, glittering future. And Mark’s suspicion, his anger—it was all playing right into my hands. The more convinced he was that I had another man, the more completely his world would shatter when the truth finally came out.
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