My wife's best friend had just become the chief physician of the anorectal department.

Because of his age, patients avoided him. Without hesitation, my wife, Michelle Carter, asked him to issue me a fake exam certificate showing I had a loose anus.

It was all a publicity stunt.

Young women started bringing their boyfriends, pretending to get exams just to dig into their partners' pasts.

The campaign worked—and my reputation was utterly destroyed.

When I received yet another harassing call, I finally brought up divorce.

Michelle didn’t get it. She waved it off:

“He’s not as pitiful as the patients, so I helped him out. I’ll pay, you just go along—what’s so wrong with that?”

“Sure,” I replied dryly.

Whatever Michelle wanted to do for Maxwell Morgan, she'd do it—even if I refused.

But I won’t be her stepping stone again. “Sign it.”

——

Across the desk, Michelle leaned back, undoing her collar button, impatience flitting across her brows.

“So your reputation took a hit. It’s just gossip. You're my husband—Michelle's. With the Carter family name, who can really touch you?”

Same old excuses.

I smiled faintly. “Remember your dad’s birthday? The tea was laced with weeds, but you made me take the fall.”

Because of that, Mr. Carter had me kneel in the ancestral hall for three days straight.

By the time I got up, rumors of me giving fake gifts to deceive my in-laws had exploded.

The media, netizens, relatives—they all came after me.

Back then, Michelle said something in the same calm voice.

“Are you really that upset just because I asked for a few favors? Sophia is young and single. If people say she gives gifts to men, it’ll ruin her future.”

“Oh?” I met her eyes. “I’m two months older and married. I guess I don’t need a future.”

Was that it?

Maybe that’s all I ever was in her mind.

Michelle looked annoyed, her polished nails tapping the table.

“At worst, I’ll take you abroad for some downtime, okay?”

“You’re seriously asking for a divorce over something this minor?”

I was about to reply when the fingerprint lock clicked and the office door swung open.

Maxwell walked in, squinting slightly, and set a lunchbox on the coffee table.

He looked startled to see me.

“Oh—Zachary’s here too.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here today. I only brought two soups...”

I didn’t respond. I glanced at Michelle, left the divorce papers on her desk, and turned to go.

Her office lock only recognized her fingerprint. She once said she didn’t like being disturbed while working. Whenever I came, I waited outside.

Since the gift incident, her father had stopped asking me to bring her soup.

But judging by Maxwell’s ease, he’d clearly been coming for lunch regularly.

That thought made me pause. I turned back and asked him:

“When did you register your fingerprint for this door?”

He blinked. “The first day I delivered soup.”

“I see.”

So in Michelle’s mind, only her husband’s presence counted as a disruption.

But it doesn’t matter. I’ve already made up my mind to divorce her.

Perhaps startled by my silence, Maxwell looked uneasy. “I’m sorry, Zachary. I didn’t think registering my fingerprint would upset you. I’ll ask Michelle to delete it before I leave.”

“Michelle, tomorrow I’ll just wait outside until you're done with work, and then we’ll have dinner. A few minutes late at the hospital won’t matter to patients, but I don’t mind waiting…”

I think Maxwell and I give off different auras. Just a few words from me and he always turns timid.

Whenever that happens, people think I’m bullying him.

And that’s exactly what’s happening now.

“No need to delete it.”

Michelle gave me a cold look, then stood and patted Maxwell’s shoulder to comfort him.

“I registered his fingerprint. If you have a problem, say it to me. Don’t take it out on someone innocent.”

She didn’t notice that her so-called “innocent” friend was now tilting his head and flashing me a smug smile.

I pressed my lips together—then suddenly laughed.

Across the room, I asked Michelle, “You’ve always said you see him like a younger brother. That’s why you take care of him, right?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

I nodded too—and finally voiced the question that had weighed on me for three years.

“After I married you, didn’t that make me his brother-in-law? Has he ever called me that? Did you ever ask him to?”

“Even on our wedding day, when the elders asked him to offer a toast, he got drunk out of his mind. You were so worried, you stayed by his side all night—while I spent my wedding night alone.”

“I didn’t know being a half-brother ranked two levels above a new husband. If I’d known, maybe I’d have adopted a half-sister, just to experience it...”

“Zachary Bennett!”

Before I could finish, Michelle cut me off sharply, her face clouded with anger.

She turned to soothe Maxwell, who looked like he was about to cry and swore he’d jump off a building to prove his innocence.

“If you can’t speak properly, then leave. Stop being so sarcastic.”

“People with a filthy heart see everything as dirty.”

“That’s your answer?”

My expression darkened.

Spiteful as it was, wasn’t that just the truth?

I slammed the office door behind me. Michelle and I parted on bitter terms.

The news quickly reached her father, who wasted no time scolding me.

“Michelle’s running a huge company—so busy she barely eats. And what about you? You can’t help her solve anything. You can’t even let her relax. So what if I find someone else to ease her stress? And you—filthy liar, tricking my daughter into marrying a gay man—what right do you have to complain?”

My hand clenched involuntarily at my side. My heart grew colder.

To help Maxwell play his role, Michelle even trashed my dignity—dragging seven or eight strangers before the elders, accusing me of having affairs with them.

“You take the blame now, and I’ll find time to explain everything to my family later.”

I waited over a month for that explanation.

What I got was a new wave of slanderous posts.

I ended the call without a word, leaning wearily against the sofa.

My mind drifted to the past.

Michelle and I weren’t each other’s firsts. When we met, she only ran a modest business.

I joined her company, helped with partnership deals. We’d often entertain clients late into the night, taking turns dealing with those hard-drinking bosses.

When the company’s growth stalled, Michelle grew frustrated and often invited me for walks and long talks by the river.

Through these moments, we naturally grew closer, and I invested some of my own money into the business, acquiring a two percent stake.

As the company expanded, Michelle’s net worth skyrocketed. I proposed, and she said yes.

Three months before the wedding, she brought Maxwell from her hometown, saying it would help him pursue his medical studies. To celebrate his arrival, she even transferred my shares to him.

We had a fierce argument about it.

Maybe that’s when the rift between us began.

I woke up drenched in sweat and tears.

At some point, Michelle had returned. She saw my packed luggage by the door and looked irritated.

“What now? Wasn’t yesterday’s outburst at the company enough? You want to make a scene again?”

I rinsed my face with cold water and left the spare key on the sink.

“I’m moving out for a while. Did you sign the divorce papers?”

“You’re serious about this divorce?”

Her face dropped instantly, eyes turning icy cold.

“All because of a fake exam? I know it wasn’t real. I don’t even care.”

I said nothing.

How absurd.

After eight years together, she still didn’t know why I suddenly wanted a divorce.

She paused, then said, “Did my dad say something to you? Just endure it for now. Sophia is being considered for the Best Doctor award. Once he wins, I’ll explain everything to your family.”

“No need.”

Once the divorce is done, I’ll restore my name myself.

If I wait for her to explain, I know what she’ll say: “Let it go. Everyone believes it anyway.”

I used to think I understood Michelle.

My eyes landed on the gift she was holding—a watch from a niche foreign brand.

She snorted and tossed it at my feet.

“Sophia picked it for you. He’s more thoughtful than you.”

I didn’t pick it up. I just gave a cold smile.

Michelle snapped and called me uncultured.

The irony deepened.

If I recall, this exact watch appeared on her Instagram Moments at the end of last month.

“Michelle, you pride yourself on manners. Have you ever seen someone give a used gift? Or throw one at someone’s feet?”

I hooked the ribbon with an umbrella from the hallway, opened the box, and pulled out the watch—already damaged from scraping against an old dial.

The hands had stopped moving.

“It’s worn out.”

I looked up at her. Her eyes flickered with guilt.

“This watch isn’t flashy. Katherine Quinn works with patients every day—she just wore it briefly. Why make a fuss?”

I laughed.

I didn’t expose her lie, nor did I scroll back through her Moments to find the post.

Before leaving, I said one last thing.

“Just sign already. This is getting tedious.”

Not long after I moved into my friend’s place, Maxwell posted a new Instagram update.

As if afraid I’d miss it, he even tagged me.

“Why do good women always meet the wrong men? If it were me, I’d never let her struggle to balance her career and home.”

The post showed Michelle, slightly tipsy, staring out a floor-to-ceiling window at the night view.

For the next two weeks, Maxwell’s Instagram feed never stopped.