I walked in late to the college reunion, just in time to catch my husband, Charlton, in a game of Truth or Dare. "If you could go back seven years, what's the one thing you'd do differently?" Charlton’s arm was wrapped tight around his new flame, a smile of pure bliss on his face. "I'd go back to her campus and ask her out sooner," he said, his voice warm. "That way, we could have been together all this time." The girl, Una, gazed up at him, her expression a mask of adoration. "I wish you had come for me sooner, too." A chorus of "Awws" and whistles erupted from our old classmates. So sweet. So romantic. But none of them knew I was Charlton's wife. That we’d been secretly married for five years. And none of them knew that seven years ago, to the day, was our wedding anniversary. A fact Charlton had clearly forgotten. Later, when the bottle spun to me, it was my turn for a truth. "I wish," I said, my voice steady, "that seven years ago, I had never met, and certainly never married, Charlton." A friend, filming for her Instagram story, caught the whole thing. When Charlton saw the post, the color drained from his face. 1 The day I finally decided to file for divorce, I called Charlton. It rang three times before a woman picked up. Una. It was an open secret in our circle that she was his mistress. "Charlton's busy right now," she chirped, her tone breezy. "You can tell me, and I'll pass it along when he's free." She said it as if she owned the number herself. My knuckles turned white around my phone. It had been like this for six months. Every call to my husband was intercepted by Una. I knew none of my messages ever reached him, but I had a feeling she’d be very interested in this one. This time, instead of hanging up or screaming at her like I usually did, I spoke with cold precision. "Do me a favor and tell Charlton I've decided to divorce him." The line went silent for two long seconds, then I heard the scrape of a chair against the floor. "Don't hang up," she said, the casual arrogance gone from her voice, replaced by a flicker of panic. "I'll go get him." During the few dozen seconds I waited, I could hear her hurried footsteps echoing through the receiver. "Charlton, it's for you." His response was a muffled grumble, annoyed at the interruption. "What is it now?" Charlton's voice, crackling with static and impatience, finally came through. "I told you, I'm swamped with this project launch…" He must have thought I was calling to nag him about coming home again. His words were cut short by a light, playful laugh—Una, no doubt, teasing him at his side. "Stop it…" he chided softly, a smile in his voice, before turning his attention back to the phone. "What do you want? Just say it." I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. When I opened them again, the last ripple of emotion in my heart had settled into a dead calm. "Charlton," I said, my voice as flat as a still lake. "Let's get a divorce." The playful sounds on his end stopped cold. A heavy silence stretched on before he finally spoke, his voice laced with disbelief. "What did you say?" "I said, I want a divorce." 2 It wasn't always like this with Charlton and me. We’d been married for seven years. I used to laugh at the whole "seven-year itch" cliché, convinced we were the exception, that we were endgame. That conviction shattered last winter. I'd gone to his office to bring him a hot meal, but as I approached the building, I saw him holding a car door open for Una. He was tall, and as he bent down, he instinctively shielded her head with his hand, a gesture so natural, so intimate, it made my stomach clench. Una laughed at something he said, reaching up to playfully ruffle his hair. The tenderness in his eyes as he looked at her was a look I hadn't seen directed at me in years. I stood frozen behind a tree, my hands crushing the insulated lunch bag. A bitter wind snaked its way into my collar, but it was nothing compared to the ice forming in my heart. From that day on, something broke. I couldn't accept it. I became obsessed, a woman possessed. I hired people to track his movements. I even followed him myself, crouching in the shadows across from his office late at night, watching him and Una emerge together. I saw her wrap her scarf around his neck as he tilted his head back, smiling at her under the orange glow of a streetlight that stretched their two shadows into one. My grief curdled into rage. Every time he bothered to come home, I’d throw the photos in his face, my eyes red-rimmed as I screamed at him, calling him a "shameless," "ungrateful bastard." But Charlton’s reaction was always the same: a profound, chilling indifference. He would simply crouch down, gather the scattered photos one by one, and place them in a neat pile on the table. He'd look at me, his eyes as still and lifeless as a stagnant pond. "If this makes you feel better," he’d say quietly, "then go on." He never explained, never argued. It was as if he had surgically removed himself from our relationship, leaving me to rage against a ghost. It was as if we had never been in love at all. We had started out like any other couple. He was building his company from the ground up, and to support him, I became the perfect supportive wife. His startup was a relentless grind, and seeing him run himself into the ground, I quit my own promising career to manage our home, our life, so he could focus entirely on his dream. Friends would joke that I was his glorified maid. At parties, someone would always make a snide comment. I’d just smile and make excuses for him. "He's just so busy. It's only right that I pick up the slack." What was wrong with being the bedrock for the man I loved? In any partnership, one person always has to sacrifice a little more, right? And every time he came home, utterly exhausted, and his face would soften as he ate the hot meal I’d prepared, I felt a quiet, profound satisfaction. That was enough for me. 3 The real moment my heart died was at that reunion. In another fit of irrational jealousy, I had followed Charlton to the hotel. I stood outside the private room, listening. They were reminiscing about the past when someone asked him, "Charlton, if you could go back seven years, what's the one thing you'd do?" Before Charlton could even answer, Una jumped in. "I'd want my man to come find me sooner." The room erupted in teasing and laughter about how sweet they were. Charlton, his arm firmly around Una’s waist, just smiled. "I'd go back to her campus and ask her out," he said, his voice laced with a honeyed affection. "That way, we could have been together all this time." No one in that room knew that seven years ago today, Charlton and I had stood outside City Hall, our marriage license in hand. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, his palm sweating as he clutched my hand. "We're a family now," he'd whispered, his voice thick with nerves and joy. Now, he didn't even remember the date. He was casually rewriting our history, erasing me from the timeline he now wished he’d spent with her. In that instant, something inside me didn't just break; it turned to dust. Charlton's grand romantic declaration spread like wildfire through our social circle. Everyone praised them, calling it true love. They marveled at how an old soul like Charlton could burn so brightly for someone. They gushed about how perfect Una was for him. It seemed no one remembered that I was his wife. That seven years ago was our beginning. I thought I would storm in, screaming, just like all the times before. But as my hand hovered over the door handle, a strange clarity washed over me. The tracking, the screaming, the hysterical fits… it wasn't about love anymore. It was about pride. It was about not wanting to lose. But looking at the genuine happiness on his face as he looked at her, I finally understood. He hadn't loved me for a long time. There was no point in clinging to this. It was just mutual torture. It was better to just let go. 4 Charlton texted me, telling me to come to his office the following week to discuss the divorce. I stared at the cold, impersonal message for a long time, the belated realization dawning on me that he hadn't initiated contact in months. I scrolled up through our chat history. It was a monologue. A stream of my messages, unanswered. There were angry, desperate accusations, but mostly, there were messages steeped in a longing I was now ashamed of. 【Made your favorite braised short ribs. Are you coming home for dinner?】 【It's getting cold out. Don't forget a jacket.】 【When are you coming home?】 After each one, a vast, echoing silence. I saw the pathetic pattern. I’d lash out, screaming that I never wanted to see him again, only to find myself texting him an hour later to remind him to eat on time. Looking back at it now, it was just… sad. Utterly, laughably sad. The following Monday afternoon, I went to his office at the agreed-upon time. But I couldn't even get in the building. My key card, the one I’d used for seven years, had been deactivated. Security in this high-rise was notoriously tight; without access, you were stuck. I pulled out my phone and called Charlton. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. I tried again. Same result. The sun beat down relentlessly, and within minutes, my back was soaked with sweat. I waited from two o'clock until four, unable to reach him. A slow, simmering frustration began to crawl up my spine. Just as my patience wore thin and I was about to turn and leave, the elevator doors slid open. Out walked Charlton, holding Una's hand. They were murmuring to each other, and he had a relaxed smile on his face. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Charlton." He heard my voice and looked up, the smile vanishing. A flicker of surprise crossed his face. "Elara? What are you doing here?" "You texted me to come discuss the divorce," I said, my voice flat. "I've been calling you. I've been waiting out here all afternoon." Just like always. Anything to do with me was a casual afterthought. Charlton frowned, a hint of confusion in his eyes. "The meeting was rescheduled. Didn't anyone tell you? I have a client meeting this afternoon." Before he finished, Una let out an exaggerated gasp. "Oh, my god," she said, plastering an apologetic look on her face. "I am so sorry. Charlton asked me to let you know before he went into his meeting, but I got so busy it completely slipped my mind." I looked at her phony performance, knowing full well she’d "forgotten" on purpose. But I couldn't be bothered to care anymore. We were getting divorced. These petty games were meaningless. Una continued, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. "But Elara, you're so silly. You should have just gone home if you couldn't reach him. You're so stubborn. Or… were you just that eager to get this divorce over with?" Her eyes glinted with a clear challenge. Charlton's frown deepened. He gave Una a gentle nudge. "Don't talk nonsense." He then turned to me. "Come on in. We can talk." Inside his office, he pulled a document from a drawer. A divorce agreement. "Financially, I can offer you a generous settlement," he said, pushing it across the desk. I took a sip of the water he’d offered. It was lukewarm and did nothing to warm the chill in my chest. "Of course, you will," I replied coolly. "After all, you're the at-fault party." Charlton's expression soured. He clearly hadn't expected me to be so blunt. In his world, he was the hero of a grand love story with Una. He’d likely forgotten that in the eyes of the law, and reality, he was just a man cheating on his wife. My words had shattered the thin veneer of respectability he was clinging to. He was silent for a few seconds before sliding a pen toward me. "Just look over the agreement. If there are no issues, sign it." I skimmed the pages. The terms were as he'd said. I picked up the pen and signed my name on the final page with a firm, steady hand. Then I pushed the document back to him and stood up to leave. "Is that it?" Charlton's voice stopped me at the door. It sounded strange, laced with an emotion I couldn't quite place. "You have nothing else to say?" I didn't stop walking. "To you?" I said, my back still to him. "No. There's nothing left to say." Just as I reached the door, he spoke again, his voice low, almost guilty. "I'll continue to cover all of your brother's medical expenses. I promise." 5 My brother, Leo, was Charlton's classmate. He was the one who introduced us. Leo had told me Charlton was just like us—parents gone too soon, fighting for everything he had. He said Charlton was kind and resilient, and that we would be perfect for each other. I still remember the first time I saw Charlton. He was wearing a faded pair of jeans, but his face shone with a confidence and optimism that was magnetic. After we got together, no one was happier than Leo. He would grab both our hands and say, "The three of us orphans, we finally have a real family." Those early days were lean. Charlton's company was just a dream, and my salary, combined with Leo's, was stretched thin. We poured every spare dollar we had into his business. Charlton would take the cash we pressed into his hands, his eyes welling up with tears. "When this company takes off," he’d promise, his voice thick with emotion, "I'll give you both the world." And it did take off. We thought our struggles were finally over. But then, disaster struck without warning. Leo was rushing to deliver an urgent document for Charlton when a reckless driver ran a red light and slammed into him. The driver was a deadbeat with no insurance and no money, choosing jail time over paying the medical bills. But Leo was in the ICU, and every breath he took depended on a machine. I watched Charlton pace the hospital corridors, his eyes bloodshot, torn between his fledgling company and his best friend lying comatose. In the end, I made the choice for us. I gritted my teeth, quit my job, and dedicated myself to taking care of them both. The day I left my job, a former colleague clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, Elara," she'd said with a grin, "time to enjoy the good life as Mrs. Charlton." Only I knew that from that day forward, my life became a relentless, spinning gyroscope. I’d wake at five, go to the hospital to clean and care for Leo, then rush home to make Charlton breakfast and deliver it to his office. I'd time my lunch break to go back to the hospital, give Leo his physical therapy, then race back to make Charlton his favorite lunch. In the evening, I’d wait for Charlton to finish his late nights at the office, hand him a warm bowl of soup, and then return to the hospital to sit by Leo’s bedside through the night. Sometimes, after a sleepless night at the hospital, I’d go straight to the market to buy groceries before heading back to Charlton's office. Three meals a day. A relentless triangle between the hospital, the office, and our empty home. But seeing Charlton smile over a successful contract, or seeing Leo's finger twitch ever so slightly, made it all feel worth it. In the beginning, Charlton was devoted to Leo. Every Wednesday, without fail, he’d visit. He’d bring fresh lilies and sit by Leo's bed, quietly telling him about the company's progress. "When you wake up," he’d whisper, "I'll take you to see the ocean." That all started to change when he met Una. She was the liaison from a partner company. On their first project, she completely botched the proposal. Charlton came home complaining, "This new girl from the client's side is a complete idiot. She can't even get the numbers right." But it wasn't long before the "idiot" became "a bit young, just needs some guidance," and then, "she's actually got a really cute personality." 6 The first time I felt the ground truly shift beneath me was on my birthday last year. I’d cooked an elaborate dinner: Charlton's favorite braised short ribs and a special mac and cheese, the way Leo used to love it. He had just sat down when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and immediately stood up, grabbing his jacket. "Una's drunk at some bar and causing a scene. I have to go check on her." I grabbed his wrist, my voice tight. It was the first time I'd ever really challenged him. "It's my birthday, Charlton." He pulled his arm away, his tone sharp with annoyance. "I'll just be a little while. She's just a kid, all alone out there. What if something happens?" From that day on, Charlton came home later and later. Sometimes I’d be at the hospital until the early hours of the morning and text him to ask if he was coming home. His only reply would be a curt, "Busy." His Wednesday visits to Leo dwindled from two hours to one, and then to nothing at all. He always had an excuse—a big meeting, a client dinner. It wasn't until I ran into his assistant at the hospital that I learned the truth. He'd been blocking out his Wednesday afternoons for months… to take Una to art galleries. Now, hearing him bring up my brother, it felt like he was twisting a knife in a wound I didn't know was still open. I turned back to face him, my voice quiet but firm. "Thank you, but that won't be necessary." He froze, a flicker of shock in his eyes. I wanted nothing more from him. No ties, no obligations. I just wanted to walk away clean, as if this whole mess had never dragged me through the mud. I left his office and was heading for the elevator when I saw her. Una, leaning against the wall, a smug, triumphant smirk on her face. "All signed and sealed?" she purred. "Did he slip you a little extra cash for your troubles?" She looked like a cat who'd not only gotten the cream but had drowned the mouse in it, too. I stopped and looked at her—at her young, pretty face, already etched with a casual cruelty. I almost laughed. "You really think he loves you?" I asked, my voice dangerously soft. "You must not have been there for the part where he was complaining to me about how you were 'as dumb as a box of rocks' at your job." The color flared in Una's cheeks. "You're lying! He told me I was his soulmate." "Soulmate?" I scoffed, letting the full weight of my contempt show. "Honey, you're a novelty. A fun new toy for a man bored with a stable life. The day he wakes up and realizes what he's lost, your ending will be a hundred times worse than mine." Una was speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. Finally, she managed to stammer, "At least he's with me now." "Then you'd better pray he never looks back." I turned away from her and pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside, my back straight, my shoulders squared. And I wasn't going to look back, either.
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