My husband, Wesley, had a bizarre obsession with role-playing. In his favorite scenario, he’d stage a dramatic breakup, claiming he had to leave me for his career or some grand ideal.

Whenever he declared, “We’re over,” I’d play my part, begging him to stay through staged, heart-wrenching tears. The next day, he’d pull me into his arms, proclaiming his love for me had triumphed and that it was all just a test of our bond.

That all changed when my mother's aneurysm ruptured, and she needed an emergency surgery costing two hundred thousand dollars.

At the time, he was deep in character as a "struggling entrepreneur" saving for Series B funding. He’d just scoffed. “Every cent goes back into the company. You think I have that kind of cash just lying around for your mother?”

I watched helplessly as my mother took her last breath, all because we’d missed the optimal window for treatment.

At the reception after her funeral, he brought a young protégée from his office to enact his twisted breakup script once more, whispering, “Sloane, we have to let this go.”

This time, I didn't cry. I just met his gaze, turned on my heel, and walked away.

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1

At the funeral reception for my mother, my husband, Wesley Harrington, showed up with his young "protégée," Cassidy Barnes, and leaned in to whisper the familiar, toxic words in my ear.

"For the company, Sloane," he murmured, his voice laced with its usual, theatrical gravity, "we have to separate."

The same nauseating game.

The low hum of mourning guests mingled with the somber music filling the hall. Yet Wesley chose this moment, of all moments, to start his sick performance.

I stared at the face I had once been so completely obsessed with. For three years, every time he delivered his breakup monologue, I would follow the script—crying, pleading, my heart supposedly breaking—only to be pulled into his triumphant embrace the next morning as he declared it was all to prove our love was indestructible.

This, he claimed, was his twisted way of expressing love, and for three years, I had numbly gone along with the script.

But now, my mother was gone. In her final moments, she’d clutched my hand, her gaze fixed desperately on the ICU door, waiting for the man she’d loved like a son to see her one last time.

He never showed up.

Unlike all the times before, I didn’t beg or plead.

I simply answered, “Okay.”

He froze, clearly braced for the usual torrent of tears. My composure was so unnatural it was unnerving.

“My lawyer will be in touch,” I stated, my voice devoid of all emotion.

Cassidy Barnes sensed the abrupt shift in the atmosphere and instinctively clutched his arm, her expression a mask of confusion.

I met Wesley’s shocked gaze and said, enunciating each word, “The game is over, Wesley.”

The next morning, I ignored the dozens of missed calls and the barrage of furious texts from him.

[Sloane, stop this nonsense. Come home.]

[Last night didn't count. I take it all back.]

[How dare you ignore my calls? Who do you think you are?]

The most recent message had arrived ten minutes ago.

[If you don't call me back this instant, you'll never see me again.]

A process server delivered the divorce papers to his high-rise office while he was in the middle of a board meeting.

I blocked his number, leased a loft apartment downtown, and began assembling my architectural portfolio. After we married, Wesley had convinced me to abandon a promising career path right after Yale to be a full-time housewife, always at his beck and call, a supporting character in his endless psychodramas.

He’d sworn he loved me so deeply that he had to keep testing that love, reaffirming it with each cruel scenario. He insisted the cold, selfish men he played weren't the real him—it was just an act.

Looking back, I realized the cold, selfish, cruel man he portrayed was never a role. That was the real him.

Wesley was incandescent with rage after being served. He somehow got my new address from the building manager and cornered me in the lobby.

"Are you insane? You actually had me served with divorce papers at my company?" he snarled, his handsome face contorted with fury.

I strode toward the entrance. “You're the one who ended it. I'm just making it official.”

“Make it official? Nothing is official until I say it is! I decide when the game ends!”

“You said the words, Wesley. It’s time you learned to live with them.” I added calmly, “I wish you all the success you were looking for,” then turned and walked into the building, leaving him fuming on the sidewalk.

With my qualifications, I quickly landed a job as a project assistant at a prestigious architectural firm. The pay was decent—enough to cover my rent and living expenses.

The interview went smoothly, and my start date was the following Monday.

But that night, I discovered all our joint credit cards had been frozen.

Over the phone, his voice was pure venom. “So you’re really determined to see this little rebellion through?”

“This isn’t a rebellion,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.

He let out a short, cruel laugh. “I’m just helping you become ‘independent,’ Sloane. Isn’t that what you wanted? To prove you could make it on your own?”

“Unfreeze the cards, Wesley!” I shouted.

“Don’t you dare challenge me,” he shot back.

True to his word, Wesley’s retaliation was swift and brutal.

On my first day at the new firm, I had barely finished orientation when a senior partner called me into his office.

He looked deeply uncomfortable. "Sloane, I have no doubt about your abilities, but we've received some… troubling feedback."

"What kind of feedback?" My stomach plummeted.

"A Mr. Wesley Harrington contacted us," he said, choosing his words carefully. "He implied that you are… mentally unstable at present and are entangled in some complicated financial disputes."

He painted me as an emotionally volatile madwoman, claiming I was trying to extort a fortune from him in the divorce. It was a lie, crafted to destroy my career and leave me with nothing. It was Wesley’s handiwork.

The partner’s expression was grave. “I want to believe you, Sloane, but this could affect the firm’s reputation. Perhaps it’s best if you… take a leave of absence for now.”

It was a polite firing. As if on cue, my phone rang.

Wesley’s triumphant voice crackled over the line. "See? I told you you’d regret this."

"You're despicable," I snarled.

"I gave you a chance," he chuckled. "One last chance. Come home, get on your knees and beg, and maybe I’ll find it in my heart to forgive you."

"In your dreams," I seethed, and hung up.

There was no world in which I would ever beg him for anything.

I walked for hours in Seattle’s cold autumn rain, soaked to the bone, before finally stumbling back to my apartment building.

As I stepped into the hallway, an unfamiliar, aggressive perfume assaulted my senses.

Cassidy was leaning against my door, striking a victorious pose with a smirk on her lips.

"What are you doing here?" I asked icily.

"I came to see how the poor, abandoned wife is holding up," she mocked.

She ran her eyes over my drenched, pathetic state and laughed. "You look dreadful. Lost your job already, didn't you? Wesley said he’d make sure you couldn't survive in Seattle—that he'd make you crawl back to him."

"He can wait," I said, pushing past her to unlock my door.

“Still trying to sound tough, are we?” She sauntered in behind me, her gaze sweeping across the small apartment before landing on the unfinished oil portrait of me my mother had been painting.

She strolled over to the easel and picked up a glass of red wine from the table beside it. "Your mother would be so disappointed to see you like this."

"Don't touch that," I warned, my voice low.