Drowning in the Playboy's Vows

In the third year of our marriage, my husband, Ethan, paraded his 99th mistress, Tiffany, in front of me.

He indulged her every whim.

He gave her the watch I bought for our anniversary. He let her replace my favorite painting with a portrait of herself.

It was because of her that my mother missed her only window for surgery.

When I called him, begging for help, he hung up on me to attend a private party with Tiffany.

Afterward, he sent a new sports car as an apology.

"Don't be so dramatic, Ava," he told me later, his voice smooth as silk.

"You know you'll always be the one and only Mrs. Archer."

But my mother was already gone.

And a part of my heart died with her.

What was the point of being Mrs. Archer anymore?

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1

After arranging my mother's funeral, I took out the divorce papers I’d had drawn up long ago.

I waited until the early hours for Ethan to return, reeking of perfume and alcohol.

"Darling, did you like the gift I sent?"

His shirt collar was flecked with a stranger's glitter as he leaned in to kiss me, his eyes hazy with liquor.

I fought back the bile rising in my throat and shoved a stack of documents in front of him.

He squinted as he flipped through them, a disdainful smile playing on his lips.

"Trust fund transfers? I suppose I have spoiled you rotten over the years."

"Fine, it's just money. If it makes you feel better, I'll sign off on however much you want."

With that, Ethan grabbed a pen and scrawled his name across the documents with a flourish, one after another.

When he reached the very last one—the divorce agreement—he stopped.

"What's this? It looks different."

Just as I was about to speak, a message from Tiffany flashed on his phone.

"Ethan, you promised you’d stay with me all night! How could you run back to her the second she throws a fit? You’re totally playing favorites."

It was followed by a video of them partying wildly at a nightclub.

Ethan's breath hitched.

He hastily scrawled his signature on the divorce agreement and grabbed his jacket to leave.

At the door, he paused as if remembering something and glanced back at me.

His tone was a mixture of impatience and placation. "Be good. We have an agreement. We have an open marriage, and you know the one rule was no catching feelings for anyone on the side."

"Tiffany's just an immature kid; she was only joking. Don't take it out on her. Just let it go. We should all try to get along. You'll always be my one and only Mrs. Archer."

Then, without waiting for my reply, he vanished behind the door.

The door clicked shut with a dull thud, leaving me alone in the cavernous penthouse.

The endless night swallowed me whole.

I looked down at the divorce papers in my hand, and finally, the tears fell.

Our beginning had been like something out of a romantic movie.

I was curating an exhibition at a gallery when I ran into Ethan, who was hiding from the paparazzi.

He claimed it was love at first sight—that he'd fallen for my silhouette the moment he saw it.

His arm was injured, yet he stubbornly insisted on getting my contact information.

I had no intention of getting involved with the notorious Wall Street playboy, but he seemed genuinely ready to change for me.

He cut ties with all his other women and pursued me with single-minded devotion.

Rare jewels, limited-edition sports cars—he sent them one after another.

Private jet getaways, firework displays that lit up entire private islands—he arranged them night after night.

Once, my mother's condition became critical, and the ambulance was stuck in traffic.

Just as I was at my wit's end, Ethan used his family's connections to fly in the country's top medical team, saving my mother's life.

His old injury flared up, his hand shaking violently, but he held me tight.

"Ava, marry me. I swear I'll change for you. I'll only love you for the rest of my life."

Looking at his sincere, earnest face, I tearfully accepted.

But the fairytale of the reformed playboy was short-lived.

Ethan soon grew tired of a stable life and returned to his world of hedonism and extravagance.

When I shattered a wine glass in anger, he had a more expensive set delivered the next day.

When I suggested we separate, he threatened to cut off my mother's medical care.

The vows of eternal love we once made had shattered into a million pieces.

The expensive gifts became the bars of a gilded cage.

Eventually, Ethan grew tired of arguing.

He gave me an unlimited black card and proposed that absurd "freedom within the marriage" agreement.

"Ava, I really do love you, but monogamy is just too boring."

"We're still young; we should experience more of life. I promise, once I've sown my wild oats, I'll settle down for good and build a real life with you."

In three years of marriage, he had countless lovers.

Some lasted a few days, others a month.

Only Tiffany had remained for a full six months.

He broke his own rules for her, again and again.

He slowly eroded our love and, in the process, completely broke my heart.

Now, my mother was dead.

I no longer had to endure this loveless marriage for her sake.

Once the cooling-off period ended, Ethan and I would be strangers.

He and his little mistress could have all the freedom in the world.