The message sank like a stone. Patrick didn't reply all night.

My marriage to Patrick started three years ago at an alumni mixer.

Back then, I'd seen enough of the ugly side of human nature working in obstetrics. I had zero interest in finding a partner. But the organizer happened to be a close friend of mine, and she badgered me relentlessly until I caved.

The moment I stepped into the private room, my eyes landed on Patrick. He radiated an aura that practically screamed stay away. My friend nudged me, eyebrows waggling, and pulled me aside to gossip.

He was a year ahead of us in school, now the CEO of Sanchez Group. Not only was he devastatingly handsome, but his romantic history was a complete blank slate. A prime catch by every measure.

I didn't take the bait. My gut told me the more captivating the man, the more dangerous he was.

The night the mixer ended, a friend request popped up on my phone. Patrick Sanchez.

The instant I accepted, he sent me a location pin for the county clerk's office and a time.

"Hello. Would you be willing to enter a secret marriage with me?"

My fingertip froze in midair, trembling. I didn't dare move, convinced I was dreaming.

It turned out Patrick's grandfather was on his deathbed. The old man's only dying wish was to see his grandson married before he passed. That was why Patrick had suddenly shown up at the alumni mixer.

His reason for choosing me was simple. I was in medicine, out the door before dawn and home after dark. We'd barely cross paths. And since I'd already grown numb to the world's cruelties at the hospital, he assumed I wouldn't be interested in romance.

It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in my face. I was about to refuse when another message came through.

"I know a secret marriage isn't fair to you. I'll give you a divorce agreement with the date left blank. The moment you want out, I'll sign. And for every year the marriage lasts, five million dollars will be deposited into your account."

When I thought about how I could work my entire life and never earn five million, yet all I had to do was marry a handsome, restrained man for one year to get it, I was ashamed to admit my heart wavered.

In the second year of our marriage, our relationship shifted. We went from two strangers coexisting under the same roof to exchanging small daily check-ins, casual concern, quiet warmth.

Then one night, he came home drunk from a business dinner. The second he walked through the door, he pinned me beneath him and murmured Edith's name, his voice thick with longing.

My heart lurched. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around him. But the moment our lips touched, I remembered: he had someone else. The one that got away. The woman he'd never stopped wanting.

I shoved him off. Hard. And I laid it all out before things went any further.

I didn't share. Not ever. If anything happened between us tonight, then from this point on, I had to be the only woman in his heart.

Patrick clung to me, stealing kisses between sloppy, mumbled agreements.

As time went on, I started pressing him. When are we going public?

To prove I was serious, I tore up the divorce agreement right in front of him and made a vow: As long as you don't leave, I won't either.

Looking back now, that unreadable flicker in his eyes must have been pity. Or mockery. He'd been laughing at me for reading too much into us.

I gagged as I canceled the couples' trip to the Maldives—flights, hotel, all of it.

The first year, we had no feelings for each other, so there was no anniversary trip.

The second year, things between us had gotten visibly better. With his quiet approval, I'd planned every detail of the vacation. Researched restaurants, mapped out itineraries, bookmarked sunset spots.

But a phone call came right before boarding. Patrick left and never came back.

That day, every headline was buzzing about how Patrick Sanchez had lost his mind—how he'd ignored everyone trying to stop him, ordered the artificial lake in the city center drained, and then jumped in himself to fish something out.

The third year, I planned to go public with our relationship first, then take the trip.

But fate had another cruel joke waiting for me.

It wasn't until I saw Patrick bring up the past with my own eyes that I finally understood. I was the fool. The complete and utter fool.

In Patrick's heart, Edith would always come first.

All she had to do was stand there, and I'd already lost.

The moment I walked through the door, my phone couldn't help but shove Patrick and Edith's love story in my face.

Childhood sweethearts. First love. Torn apart by fate. Reunited at last.

A pair of star-crossed lovers for the ages.

I sipped my Coke, tasting something faintly bitter and salt on my lips.

On the table, my phone still showed a message Patrick had sent three hours ago. He said he'd apologize in person when he got home.

I waited two weeks. No apology came. Instead, I watched Patrick escort Edith to event after event, right there on my screen.

The media called them the perfect couple, the center of every room they entered.

At a private auction, anything Edith so much as glanced at twice, Patrick bid on until he won it, no matter how absurd the price.

Posts praising the two of them flooded my social media feeds in real time. Articles congratulating them on their fairy-tale reunion were everywhere, and no matter how fast I blocked and muted, I couldn't keep up.

Then the paparazzi dropped a bombshell. Edith had casually mentioned missing her old girl-group days, and Patrick had immediately arranged for her to be parachuted in as the leader of the hottest girl group in the country.

The internet swooned, as usual. Everyone except the original group's fanbase.

Those fans rallied around their girls and started digging. They unearthed the truth: Edith hadn't left the group because of an injury. She'd abandoned her career to chase a man overseas. She wasn't some empowered girlboss. She was a lovesick puppy.

Someone claimed to know Patrick's wife. They called Edith a serial homewrecker.

And Patrick wasn't even the biological father of the child. The timeline didn't add up.

The revelations hit the internet like a match dropped in gasoline, and Edith was engulfed all over again.

That was when Patrick contacted me for the first time in two months.

"Was it you? The stuff online?"

"No."

He sounded like he'd already anticipated my answer.

"Edith was right. You'd never admit it."

The explanation I wanted to give died in my throat. All that came out was a hollow laugh.

If he'd already decided it was me, why bother asking?

I was about to hang up when his voice came through, low and cold as a devil's whisper.

"Babe, let's get a divorce. Someone dug up our marriage, and it's making things worse for Edith. Think of it as doing her a favor. Once this all blows over, we'll remarry."

"And while you're at it, post a public apology on her behalf. Say you were jealous and that you spread those rumors about her out of spite."

"I'll transfer twenty million dollars as compensation. I hope you can understand."

I refused on the spot. His tone went ice-cold.

"You know this isn't a negotiation."

He had more than enough ways to make me comply.

The second hand ticked. I heard my own voice, thin and nearly broken.

"Fine."