His Secret Wife Five Wasted Years

It was eleven at night, and I was getting ready to head out for my overnight cleaning shift to help make ends meet.

That's when a video popped up on my feed.

The title read: Show Off Your Old Awards and Certificates!

The comment section was buzzing, but one reply stood out above all the rest.

"I was never good at school, so does it count if my husband had custom awards made just for me?"

Unlike everyone else posting yellowed paper certificates from their childhood, the photo this woman shared showed an entire wall of awards cast in solid gold.

Each one was studded with colored diamonds spelling out things like World's Most Adorable Sweetheart and Most Enchanting Little Vixen.

I shook my head in amazement. Rich people really did flex differently when showing off their love.

I was about to scroll past when, egged on by a flood of jealous and admiring comments, the woman posted another photo.

A kiss shot of the happy couple.

My fingertip froze in midair. Every drop of blood in my body went cold.

Against the backdrop of that lavish interior, the man's profile was unmistakable. I would have recognized it anywhere.

It was my husband. Edmund Mason. The one who was supposed to be out driving a cab right now.

...

The comments were going wild.

"Oh my God, do men like this actually exist? Gorgeous, loaded, AND obsessed with his wife? No way this isn't photoshopped!"

To prove it was real, the girl secretly started a livestream.

On screen, a tall man in an apron moved around a gleaming kitchen, his back to the camera. He must have sensed someone watching, because he turned and smiled, soft and warm.

Edmund's face filled the screen.

The girl's voice came through in a giddy whisper.

"See? My husband spoils me rotten. This penthouse is worth tens of millions. He gave it to me as a birthday present."

"Okay, gotta go! Hubby's making me a late-night snack!"

The livestream cut off abruptly. Viewers flooded the chat with envy.

I was the only one whose heart was turning to ice, inch by inch.

I picked up my phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. Finally, I couldn't stop myself and dialed the number I knew by heart.

The line rang for a long time before he answered. When he did, Edmund's voice carried that familiar, carefully manufactured exhaustion.

"Louisa Sullivan. What's up?"

"Nothing. Just wondering what you're doing."

He let out a tired chuckle.

"What do you think? Driving the cab, same as always. Just dropped off a fare. Made about a hundred bucks."

"Is Felix asleep? Be careful heading out tonight. Oh, and happy anniversary. Once I've paid off the debt, I'll make it up to you. I promise."

I glanced at the clock. It was already past midnight.

I opened my mouth to speak, but a woman's petulant whine drifted through the phone.

"Babe, you promised you'd focus on me tonight! Why are you still on the phone? So mean! I'm gonna cry!"

Edmund's breath hitched. A thread of panic crept into his voice.

"There's a female passenger. Sounds like she had too much to drink. I have to go."

"And Louisa... try not to call while I'm working. It's not safe."

He hung up before I could respond.

I pulled my lips into a bitter smile. Not safe. Was that really the reason, or was he afraid of upsetting someone?

I set the phone down and looked around the cramped studio apartment.

Five years of marriage, and this was still our home. The same place we'd moved into as newlyweds.

The furniture was so old I'd lost count of how many times I'd patched and glued it back together.

When I married Edmund Mason, he'd just gone bankrupt. Millions in debt. And he came with a two-year-old son his late wife had left behind.

During the day, he worked his regular job. At night, he drove a cab to earn extra money.

I couldn't work full-time because someone had to take care of Felix, and I felt so guilty watching Edmund run himself ragged that I never let him lift a finger around the house.

Every night after the boy fell asleep, I'd head to a nightclub to mop floors and scrub toilets, hoping to shoulder even a fraction of the burden.

The jeans I was wearing had been washed so many times the cuffs were fraying. I couldn't bring myself to buy a new pair.