He said it was his first love, and so was I—I thought I'd struck gold, bypassing all the heartache, but I had no clue...

Given his rough upbringing and rural background, my parents were initially against it after scraping to get me through college.

But I stood by him, convinced that with enough elbow grease, we'd bake our bread eventually.

My folks finally caved, handed me the family records, and we skipped a wedding to save cash.

Three years on, I discovered he wasn't cash-strapped; he was just pinching pennies when it came to me.

I went home, packed up his stuff, dumped it outside, and changed the locks.

He didn't show up until six AM, knocking, pleading for forgiveness.

Not wanting to wake the neighbors, I let him in.

He has changed into the same cheap suit he wore when we got our marriage license, still hanging on after three years.

What a stark contrast to the dapper man at the bar.

I couldn't help but laugh—how tiring it must be, playing so many parts.

His face brightened, thinking I was over my anger.

"Mia, I nailed a huge deal last night! I've been promoted—I'm a manager now! We can finally afford our own place!"

He was holding a bouquet of red roses, all excited about his triumph, convinced we were on the brink of securing our dream home.

I stepped back, suddenly realizing the years of effort were just a farce.

"Let's get a divorce."

I spoke the words coldly, bluntly.

His smile froze, etched onto his face.

We'd clashed before, but I'd never mentioned splitting up.

I had intended to be with him for a lifetime.

He looked stunned, kneeling down, gripping my hands with tears welling up.

"Mia, I really had an emergency last night. I didn't mean to stay out. Please don't be mad."

"I'm begging you, I'll never do it again. Forgive me, I really can't bear to lose you."

His eyes were swimming with tears, giving me that pitiful look.

He knew it would work every time we fought.

"Ha," I chuckled, "you're quite the actor, aren't you? Should've been on a stage, not in sales."

He really could put on a show; for three years, I never doubted him for a second.

Not that there weren't slips; it's just that love had blinded me to them.

Once during an outdoor shoot, I caught him in a sports car, dressed like a trust fund kid.

He claimed his boss thought he looked sharp and wanted him to model for a shoot, the car just a prop.

And I bought it, hook, line, and sinker.

He'd joke about having the face of a tycoon but not the fortune to match.

If it weren't for seeing through his facade, I might have been moved by his tears once again.

I leaned in, disappointment dripping from my words, "Eric Pyke, have you enjoyed your little charade?"

He looked rattled, flopping to the floor, his pleading eyes locked on mine.

"Just go. I'm no plain Jane for a rich kid like you. Did you come close because I remind you of her?"

It turns out that when you hit rock bottom, you find a peculiar calm.

I was emotionless, and couldn't even bring myself to look at him anymore.

I'm just glad that during these busy three years, we never thought about having kids.

If we had, I might not have had the strength to end this now.

I took a deep breath.

"Since she's back, you might as well be with her. But don't forget, I've invested a lot in you these past three years. You owe me."