End My Marriage While Mourning My Daughter

My husband was sleeping with his best friend’s sister.

Not just a single mistake. Not a one-time lapse. It happened again and again—and he even had the nerve to bring her into our house. Our bedroom. Our sofa. The kitchen counter where we used to share midnight snacks. He swore up and down that I was the only woman he loved, but his actions told a completely different story.

I didn’t have to picture anything in my head.

I heard them.

“Nikolai, when are you finally going to leave her? You said you would.”

“Soon, sweetheart. Just not yet. She’s still mourning our daughter.”

“How tragic. With a mother like that… well, it’s not surprising. Don’t worry, though. I’ll give you a baby soon. I’ll make sure I’m pregnant.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Be honest with me. Do you actually love your wife? Camille?”

“Yes. I do.”

That was my husband. The same man whose name made this entire city lower its voice. The ruthless, untouchable head of the Sokolov family. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous.

And yet he could talk about love while wrapped around another woman.

Thirteen days.

That was the timeline. In less than two weeks, my immigration documents would be ready. So I went straight to the consulate and submitted my application.

“Good morning. I’m here to file for immigration,” I told the officer as I passed over my forms.

She skimmed through everything, stamped the pages efficiently, then handed me a claim slip.

“Processing will take thirteen days, ma’am. Kindly wait for notification.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

As I stepped away from the counter, whispers rose behind me.

“Was that Mrs. Sokolov?”

“She’s applying for immigration? She’s leaving the country?”

“But Mr. Sokolov worships the ground she walks on. What happened?”

“Seven years ago, their wedding shut down half the city. Three years back, when she nearly died in that car crash, he donated his own blood. Last year she disappeared for an hour, and he mobilized everyone to search for her. And now she’s the one walking away?”

A quiet chuckle slipped from my lips.

Yes. To outsiders, Nikolai adored me. I was his weakness, his soft spot. The only woman he ever cared about. He was merciless with everyone else—his enemies feared him, even his own men kept their distance.

But when it came to me? He was grand gestures and glittering diamonds. Fireworks and whispered promises.

I remember how we began.

He saw me at a gala once and decided I was the woman he would marry. After that, the gifts never stopped. Imported cars. Rare jewelry. A three-night fireworks display that painted the sky in my name. One time, I casually mentioned I liked chestnut cake. He drove through a snowstorm overnight just to bring me one. He showed up soaked to the bone, his lips pale from the cold, but the cake was still warm when he placed it in my hands.

When my parents died in that crash, he walked away from a billion-dollar negotiation in New York without hesitation. He rushed back and found me shattered beyond recognition. I can still hear his voice when he held me tight.

“Camille, I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

Back then, I believed him. I thought he was my shelter. The man fate had chosen for me. I loved him with everything I had.

But men like Nikolai don’t stay faithful simply because they’re loved.

Nine months ago, temptation came knocking—and he opened the door. Of all people, it was his best friend’s sister. He thought I would remain in the dark forever.

But lies have a way of surfacing.

We had just buried our two-year-old daughter when the truth began to unravel. A trace of unfamiliar perfume on our sofa. Small inconsistencies in his stories. Late-night calls he brushed off too easily.

Piece by piece, the illusion collapsed.

And once I saw it clearly, I knew I was finished.

He could continue charming the world. He could keep spinning sweet lies in my direction. But I wouldn’t stay and pretend anymore.

I tucked my visa receipt into my purse, hailed a taxi, and told the driver to take me home—to the Ruffus Sokolov Estates.

The moment I stepped inside the villa, a heavy scent lingered in the air. Sweet, cloying… and wrong. My stomach tightened.

Then I saw them.

Nikolai was standing on a ladder, fixing decorations onto the wall. Beside him stood Vanessa Hale, smiling as if she belonged there.

The door clicked behind me.

He turned at the sound. His hands stilled. Slowly, he climbed down. The feared mafia boss vanished in an instant. In his place was the gentle husband everyone envied. His gaze softened. That familiar smile appeared—the one that used to weaken my knees.

“Camille, love… why are you dressed so thinly? You’ll get sick. Weren’t you out with your friends? You’re home earlier than I expected. I was setting up a surprise for you.”

A surprise.

My eyes drifted to his neck.

A fresh bruise bloomed there. Dark. Obvious.

My chest tightened painfully, but I forced myself to stay composed.

I didn’t say a word.

Vanessa broke the silence with a light laugh. She walked closer, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Camille, he really spoils you,” she said sweetly. “Look at all this. He prepared everything for your anniversary.”

She gestured toward the stack of gifts in the corner. My gaze followed—and that’s when I noticed it.

A damp stain seeping into the couch beneath the presents.

The scent. The mark. The evidence.

So this was how he celebrated love? By being with her just inches away from the gifts meant for me?

The pain spread through me like a slow burn, but I swallowed it down.

Nikolai approached, holding a small velvet box. He opened it and took out a bracelet, carefully fastening it around my wrist.

“Happy anniversary,” he murmured. “I arranged a candlelight dinner. Just the two of us tonight.”

I pulled my hand away.

“I’m not feeling well,” I said quietly.

Standing close to him felt suffocating.

His expression shifted immediately—concerned, attentive. He called private physicians one after another, refusing to relax until they assured him I was fine. He ordered Dante to bring supplements. He even warmed a glass of milk himself and waited until I finished it.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook me.

But sometime deep into the night, I woke up parched. My throat burned, so I stepped out of my room to get water.

And then I stopped.

The door across the hallway stood open.

Moonlight poured into the room.

And inside, two silhouettes lay tangled together on the bed.