On our fifth wedding anniversary, my husband told me he wanted to have a fake wedding with his secretary.

But after overhearing his conversation with a friend, I realized everything was a carefully crafted lie.

"Yves, haven't you had enough sneaking around with Shontelle for the past five years? And now you want to actually marry her?"

Yves downed a glass of red wine in one gulp, his cheeks slightly flushed, and a reckless smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"It's only a fake wedding, but my feelings for her are real. Besides, Shontelle's mother has a terminal illness. Her only wish is to see her daughter get married, and I intend to make that happen."

I stood frozen outside the door, holding my breath. But his next words shattered me completely.

"As for Marichelle... I have to maintain that marriage. Do you know how much property I'd lose in a divorce? Besides, she can keep earning money to support me and Shontelle's child."

His friend chuckled knowingly, patting his shoulder in approval.

"Everyone knows Marichelle is madly in love with you. She nearly severed ties with her family just to marry you. Even if you divorce her, I'm sure she'll cling to you desperately."

The room went silent for a beat, then erupted in mocking laughter—as if already picturing me pathetically begging him not to leave.

Through the crack of the door, I caught a glimpse of Yves' smug, self-satisfied smile.

I didn’t bother listening anymore. There was no point.

Clenching my fist, I dialed my Dad.

"Dad, I want a divorce. You were right—Allen is the one truly suited for me."

On the other end came a long, relieved sigh.

"My good daughter, you finally understand. I'll come pick you up in a week."

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I whispered mentally, 'Yves, to me now, you are nothing more than a pitiful, pathetic man.'

When Yves stumbled home at one in the morning, he was already calling out my name.

"Mari! Marichelle..."

From the entryway to the living room, his voice sounded anxious—because unlike always, I wasn't waiting on the sofa for him no matter how late it was.

I was already asleep, unwilling to waste another shred of emotion on a man who would soon be my ex-husband.

"You're sleeping? Without waiting for me?" He sounded incredulous when he saw me in bed.

And when I didn't respond, he stormed over and yanked me upright.

"Marichelle! How could you go to bed without me? You've never done that before!" He shook my shoulders until the last trace of drowsiness was gone.

So he had noticed that I always stayed up late for him. Yet not once did he ever tell me to rest early, never once cared about my exhaustion. Now, just because I broke the routine once, he dared to shake me awake and demand an explanation.

How had I been so blind to his cold, selfish heart?

"Are you done?" I looked at him blankly.

"What?" He frowned.

"If you're done, I'd like to go back to sleep. The doctor says I'm a light sleeper. Starting today, we'll sleep in separate rooms."

Without waiting for his reaction, I lay back down, ignoring the ugly expression on his face.

Perhaps it was my mention of separate rooms, or maybe it was the realization that I was no longer soft, patient, and endlessly forgiving—either way, Yves grew restless.

"Mari, are you angry with me? I know I came home late, but you know I had to work overtime. It's normal to finish around one or two. You're my wife—you should understand how hard I work!"

I let out a cold laugh under the covers.

"Marichelle?"

"I do understand. That's why I'm asking you to leave." I turned away from him, my back a clear rejection.

He finally gave up trying to talk to me, muttering one last line before leaving the room.

"You must be tired and not thinking straight. I hope tomorrow you'll be back to normal."

I got up early, slipping out of the house before Yves even woke up.

Partly because I didn't want to see him, but mostly because I had preparations to make. A man who betrays his marriage must pay the price!

On the way to the law firm, my phone buzzed. Yves' name flashed on the screen.

The moment I answered, his voice roared so loudly I nearly dropped the phone.

"Where did you go so early? Couldn't even say goodbye?"

"I didn't want to disturb your sleep," I replied casually, feeding him a flimsy excuse. Without solid evidence in hand, I couldn't afford to expose what I knew just yet.

Sure enough, my answer pacified him. His tone eased almost instantly.

"When are you coming back? You haven't made me breakfast."

Tch. How laughable.

He could notice there was no breakfast waiting, yet never once did he care whether I had eaten before leaving.

Yves had always loved one person—only himself.

"I didn't eat either. Buy something for yourself. I'm hanging up." I couldn't be bothered to entertain him further.

"Hey—last night you didn't wait for me, and now you can't even make breakfast? You used to—" He stopped short, but I knew exactly what he was about to say.

I used to wake up early every morning, preparing his breakfast. If he was running late, I'd pack it neatly for him to take along—dutiful, meticulous, like some live-in maid.

He took all of it for granted. And the moment I stopped, suddenly I was the one in the wrong.

"Yves, you have hands and feet. Do it yourself. I am not your maid."

I ended the call without waiting for a response.

Half a minute later, a text came through.

[Marichelle, I've never treated you like a maid. I love you. You'll always be my wife.]

[By the way, I'll be on a business trip to California next week. Send the first row of clothes from my closet to the dry cleaner, and buy me a new white suit—the finest quality.]

California...

It was Shontelle's hometown.

So, he wanted me to personally prepare the groom's suit he'd wear to marry her.

Later that morning, I was jolted awake by noise from the living room. At first, I ignored it, but after over an hour of racket, I had no choice.

When I finally emerged, I nearly laughed out loud.

The sleek black-and-white modern style of our living room vanished overnight. In its place, colorful flowers and white drapes flowing across every corner, the furniture replaced with bright, festive pieces. The room no longer felt like a home—it resembled a wedding hall.

And there he stood—Yves—dressed in a pristine white suit, clutching a bouquet, rehearsing poses as if he were the star of some romantic photo shoot. Ridiculous, and yet he wore such a serious expression.

The moment he spotted me, he straightened up and feigned calmness.

"Oh, you're home. This is just for work. I hired some people to take pictures here. It'll be done soon. Why don't you head out—shopping, a walk, whatever. I'll call when it's over."

He hadn't even realized I was in the house. If he'd bothered to check the shoe rack, he would have known. But no—he'd rather order me to disappear for a day just to indulge his whims.

"You can shoot your photos. I won't—"

I didn't get to finish. The guest room door swung open, and Shontelle stepped out in a haute couture wedding gown, cheeks blushing as she twirled shyly.

"Yves, does this dress look good on me? I still feel the first one you picked at the bridal shop looked better... Ah—"

Her words faltered when she finally noticed me standing there.

"M-Marichelle..."

The moment Shontelle noticed me standing there, panic flashed across her face.

Her eyes welled with tears as she stammered, "M-Mr. Perez, didn't you say Miss Marichelle wasn't home? That's the only reason I dared to come... What if she misunderstands? What should I do?"

And just like that, before I even opened my mouth, she had flipped the situation—casting herself as the victim.

As expected, Yves' gaze immediately softened with concern for her. If not for my presence, he probably would've pulled her into his arms right then and there.

"Marichelle, don't give Shontelle that look. This was my idea. Her family has been pressuring her to get married, so I agreed to pose as her boyfriend for some photos to send them. That way, they'll feel reassured."

"She's working all alone in a strange city. It was only because I overheard her family on the phone that I thought of helping her this way. Don't blame her—she's just a young girl."

With a few words, Yves painted me as the petty, jealous, narrow-minded wife.

I let out a cold laugh.

However, he mistook it for anger, and a sudden realization dawned on him. His lips curved into a smile, as though he had solved the problem.

"Mari, I know it's always been your regret that we never had proper wedding photos taken. Tell you what—after I finish the shoot with Shontelle, you can put on this gown and we'll take some together. That way, it'll make up for your old regret."

I was struck speechless by the absurdity of his words.

So, he did know that the canceled outdoor wedding shoot—ruined by a sudden thunderstorm—was a regret I had carried for years. And yet, now he could commission a custom gown for Shontelle, redecorate our home for her photos, while for me? I was expected to tag along for a few leftover shots.

Even my regret was only worthy of being patched up in Shontelle's shadow.

"Mr. Perez," Shontelle's soft voice floated over, "these days, photos can all be edited. If it's just pictures, my family may not believe it..." She clutched the edge of her gown, feigning hesitation.

"Then what else do you need me to do? I'll cooperate," Yves answered without missing a beat.

"And don't call me Mr. Perez in front of Marichelle—she's not an outsider. Just call me like you used to."

Shontelle's cheeks turned pink as she nodded obediently.

"Well, I'd like to stay the night. Later, you can pretend to be my boyfriend and video-call my family with me. That's all."

Her ridiculous request barely stirred me anymore—I was numb to it. Yves, though, looked briefly uneasy.

It was really hard to fathom this man.

But Shontelle was quick. Seeing his hesitation, she instantly turned her tearful gaze at me.

"Miss Marichelle, I know it's a lot to ask, but I have no choice. My family is forcing me to go back. If I can't convince them, I'll lose my chance to survive here in the city. I just want to rely on my own efforts, not go home and be caged..."

She wept pitifully, as though I were the one forcing her into marriage.

"I never said I wouldn't agree," I replied coolly.

Her tears stopped immediately, replaced by a bright smile.

"Thank you, Miss Marichelle!"

But I caught the flicker of triumph in her expression, the smugness of someone who believed she had won.

Yves clearly wasn't as pleased. He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

"Mari, what do you mean by this? You're just handing me over to another woman?"

I shook off his grip, my gaze was icy. "Isn't this exactly what you wanted? Don't worry—I'll pack up soon. After all, this house needs to be cleared for its new mistress."