Marcus was surprised by my decision and pressed me to confirm it.

"Mrs. Sterling, are you certain? You've really thought this through? A divorce means a clean break."

I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me. "Yes," I said through gritted teeth. "I've thought it through. Please, begin."

My entire family had been against my marriage to Blake. He came from a blue-collar family in the Midwest; my family's real estate empire was a cornerstone of Seattle.

No one thought we belonged in the same world.

My father only relented after forcing Blake to sign a rock-solid prenuptial agreement.

I used to laugh at how old-fashioned my father was, so sure Blake and I would grow old together. What a bitter joke that turned out to be.

I was the one who pursued Blake. In college, I had a long line of suitors, all of whom I politely declined.

Blake never approached me, never flattered me for my family's money.

I later learned it was because his "soulmate," Scarlett, attended the same university. He was so infatuated he was content to be her most devoted, yet unnoticed, admirer.

It was only when Scarlett announced her marriage to a wealthy European that Blake finally gave up.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was just tired and needed a temporary safe harbor. And I, the fool, thought it was real.

The morning after we first slept together, I proposed. Blake was stunned.

He once asked me, "Camille, aren't you afraid my heart belongs to someone else?"

I told him I was confident I could be his wife, his one and only.

Looking back, my naivety was laughable. Our entire relationship had been a farce from the very beginning.

Three years ago, Scarlett called, bored of skiing in Aspen, and Blake immediately flew to her side.

Two years ago, I was in the ER after a car accident, but Blake was unreachable. It turned out Scarlett had just divorced and flown back to the States; they’d spent the entire night celebrating her "newfound freedom."

Last year, he vanished from his own company's major launch event. I later heard from a friend he'd whisked Scarlett away to the Maldives.

I opened a mutual friend's Instagram. Tagged photos from the past few years told the whole story: Blake and Scarlett, traveling the world together.

It was all proof of his unwavering devotion.

The truth behind my miscarriage was laid bare on Scarlett's social media.

That Persian silk rug, the one meant to bring "good luck," wasn't a gift he'd bought. It was a cast-off Scarlett had brought back from Europe.

She hadn't sent it as a blessing. She’d sent it as a provocation.

Blake knew I was pregnant. Yet when that slick, treacherous rug was laid on the stairs, creating an obvious safety hazard, he didn't say a word.

I was finally awake. This marriage had been a mistake from the start.

It wasn't until I was lying on the floor alone, the blood soaking through my clothes, that I truly understood. Terrified and bleeding, I called Blake again and again, but he never picked up. He simply didn't care.

This mistake had to end.

Oh, Blake. I know you love her. And I’m going to make all your dreams come true.

Blake's visit was brief.

I washed my face and lay down. The doctor had told me to get as much rest as possible.

Just as I was drifting off, I received a text from him.

The message was punctuated by the roar of a sports car engine—the same convertible I had bought for him.

"Sorry, Camille. Project is a bit complicated. Pulling an all-nighter. Don't wait up, get some sleep."

"I know I've been neglecting you. I'll make it up to you. We swore we were in this for life," he added.

Before I could reply, I tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail.

All sleepiness vanished.

Blake had trotted out the same tired excuses a thousand times—a project crisis, a client dinner, an urgent meeting.

I let out a cold laugh.

"Partners," I scoffed at the dark screen. "I've had enough of this sham."

Vows only matter in the moment you make them. After that, they’re just air.

The next morning, I woke to an empty bed and felt a wave of relief. He hadn't come home, just as I'd expected.

I was about to make breakfast when a director from the company called.

"Camille, your husband has some nerve! Daring to skip a board meeting!"

"It's fine," I said with a small, cold laugh, and hung up.

The company was just a vehicle for him to raise capital. As long as the money kept flowing, he couldn't be bothered with the actual work.

I was about to call Blake when I glanced at Scarlett's Instagram Story from the night before.

"Someone drove through the Seattle downpour just to bring me the dessert I was craving. I know you love me most," the caption cooed.

In the photo, under dim, intimate lighting, Blake's eyes were full of adoration as he gazed at her.

I called him.

"What is it?" he grumbled, his voice thick and hoarse with sleep.

Just as I was about to speak, I heard a woman’s coquettish complaint from his end of the line.

"Blake, who is that? You're being so loud…"

In an instant, blood rushed to my head. My stomach churned with nausea.

I swallowed my words and ended the call. I slowly sat down at the dining table, my body trembling.

Blake and I had been married for years, but our intimate moments were rare.

He always claimed he had a low sex drive, that it was just how he was wired.

It turned out he just didn't desire me. With Scarlett, he was a different man.

After a few moments, my composure returned. I began methodically taking screenshots, saving every last piece of evidence from Scarlett's social media.

I compiled all the photos and videos of him lavishing her with money, making grand public declarations of love, and sent everything to Marcus.

"You love her that much?" I thought, a cold resolve hardening inside me. "Fine. I'll personally arrange for her to become the next Mrs. Sterling."