"Let's have a divorce."

Gabriel went rigid.

His hand, which had just been hovering protectively behind Camille, fell away like it had been burned. For a moment, everything inside the room went completely still. Even Camille forgot to keep up her act—her fake crying paused mid-sob as she stared at me, eyes darting between us like she couldn’t believe what she had just heard.

“You’re joking… right?” Gabriel let out a shaky laugh, but it sounded forced, thin. “Marielle, come on. Don’t say things like that.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” I asked flatly.

The color in his face shifted. Not fear of me—no. I could see it clearly now. It was fear of consequences. Of exposure. Of contracts. Of his grandfather.

“You can’t just say that,” he lowered his voice, stepping closer until he loomed over the edge of my bed. “Do you even understand what you’re doing? We’re not just a couple—we’re the face of everything. The merger depends on us staying intact. My grandfather…” He dragged a hand down his face. “He won’t survive this kind of news. He’ll never accept it.”

“I don’t care about your grandfather,” I said, even though my fingers were shaking under the blanket. “And I don’t care about your precious merger. My son is dead, Gabriel. And that happened because of you.”

For a moment, he inhaled deeply like he was forcing himself back into control. Then the expression on his face shifted again—carefully arranged, practiced.

He fixed his tie. Adjusted his sleeves. Put the mask back on like it had never slipped.

Then he reached out and gently tucked my hair behind my ear.

I hated how familiar that gesture used to feel.

“Baby, listen to me,” he said softly, almost soothing. “You’re not thinking straight right now. You’re overwhelmed. The hormones, the grief… it’s messing with your judgment. You don’t really mean what you’re saying.”

A bitter laugh almost escaped me.

“What exactly do we have, Gabriel?” I asked quietly. “A life together… or a graveyard?”

His jaw tightened.

“I know I haven’t been perfect,” he said quickly. “I’ve been under pressure. Things have been complicated. But I can fix it. I can do better. We can go out once you recover. Just the two of us. I’ll take you somewhere nice—your favorite restaurant. We can start over. And… we can try again. Have another baby.”

Something inside me cracked at the ease of it. As if the child I lost could just be replaced like something forgotten on a shelf.

“You think that’s how it works?” I whispered. “Like I can just… replace him?”

He smiled faintly, like he already knew he had me.

“You love me, Marielle,” he said with quiet certainty. “You always have. You’re not going to throw everything away over this.”

“And me?” My voice broke just slightly. “Do you love me, Gabriel?”

“Of course,” he answered immediately.

Then he leaned in and kissed me.

It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss that once used to make everything in me melt without effort.

But now it felt wrong. Hollow. It tasted like betrayal I hadn’t fully understood until this moment—like perfume that wasn’t mine, like something borrowed from someone else’s skin.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

“There,” he said lightly. “See? Nothing’s changed between us.”

A sound escaped me then—not quite a laugh, not quite anything human. Something broken and sharp that I couldn’t swallow back.

Of course I love you.

The lie had always been effortless for him.

And suddenly, I was no longer in that hospital bed—I was somewhere else entirely, dragged backward by memory.

Our marriage hadn’t begun with romance. It had begun with signatures and obligations. A deal made between two powerful families over expensive cigars and heavier expectations. I was twenty. Gabriel was twenty-two.

I remembered being afraid… and strangely hopeful at the same time. I had known who he was long before I married him—the heir everyone admired, the man everyone expected me to end up with. Charismatic. Untouchable. Always out of reach.

And always, there was Camille.

Not just his secretary back then. She had been part of his orbit for as long as I could remember. After her father died and left nothing but debt, Gabriel’s family took her in. She lived within their world, always close, always present—especially because her brother Martin was Gabriel’s closest friend.

When we first got married, Gabriel barely looked at me. He was polite, but distant, like I was simply part of the arrangement he hadn’t chosen. Most of his time belonged to them—Camille, Martin. I was there, but never really included.

Then Camille left for Paris.

For two years, she disappeared into fashion school, and something in our house finally changed. The silence she left behind made room for me.

Gabriel began to notice me. Slowly at first, then all at once. We talked more. Laughed more. He came home earlier. I started believing that maybe this wasn’t just a contract anymore.

I still remember the first bouquet he gave me—white lilies wrapped awkwardly in paper. I remember the Maldives, the way he held me under a sky full of stars, whispering that he was glad it was me he married.

I had believed it then. Completely.

I thought I had finally been chosen.

But six months ago, Camille returned.

No triumph. No warning. Just her arrival, a failed degree, and a fragile story that made Gabriel open the door for her again—this time as his executive assistant.

And just like that, everything that had been built in her absence began to rot.

It didn’t collapse loudly. It happened in pieces.

One forgotten birthday because Camille “needed help.”

One anniversary missed because she was “going through something.”

One diamond bracelet that appeared on her wrist after I never received it.

Ninety-nine small cuts I convinced myself were nothing.

I swallowed every one of them. Smiled at events while she held onto his arm like it belonged to her. Ate dinner alone while he stayed late “at work” with her. Told myself I was imagining things. That I was just insecure. That Gabriel still loved me.

But now, hearing his kiss linger on my skin, everything finally cleared.

He never really chose me.

I was convenience. Stability. A cover story. A necessary piece for inheritance, reputation, and appearances.

And behind him, Camille was watching me.

Her eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp, measuring—careful. She wasn’t afraid anymore. She was checking if I was still standing in her way.

If I fought now, weak and trapped in a hospital bed, I would lose everything. Gabriel would twist the story. Make me the unstable grieving wife. Use his name, his influence, his grandfather’s power.

So I let something else take over.

Not surrender.

Strategy.

I lowered my gaze, letting my shoulders sink like I was breaking.

“…Maybe you’re right,” I whispered. “Maybe I’m just overwhelmed.”

The relief on Gabriel’s face was immediate. Visible. Almost relieved enough to disgust me.

“I knew it,” he said softly, squeezing my hand like nothing had changed. “You don’t really mean it.”

“I’m just tired,” I murmured, closing my eyes so he wouldn’t see what was burning behind them. “I want to sleep.”

“Good,” he said quickly, already stepping back like he couldn’t wait to leave. “Rest. I’ll take care of everything here.”

“Okay.”

“And Marielle,” he added at the door, pausing without turning fully back, “don’t say that word again. Divorce. It’s unnecessary. We’ll fix this.”

“Okay,” I repeated.

He nodded, satisfied, then guided Camille out with him like she belonged beside him.

The door closed.

Silence followed.

I reached under my pillow, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I hadn’t touched in a decade.

A number I promised I would never need again.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then a voice answered—calm, elegant, distant.

“Hello?”

“…Mother,” I said, my throat raw. My voice barely held together, but something harder was forming underneath it. “You once told me… if I ever changed my mind, you’d help me. You said you still wanted to make things right between us.”

A pause.

Then softer: “I did say that. And I meant it. What do you need?”

I closed my eyes.

“Help me leave,” I whispered. “Get me out of here. Papers. Visa. Anything. I’m done, Mother. I want out. I want to disappear.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Arthur said, his voice rough like gravel dragged across stone. He set his wine glass down with a sharp clink that cut through the dining room. “A damn tragedy. My great-grandson… gone before he even had the chance to draw a breath.”

His eyes shifted toward me, and for a brief moment the severity in them softened. “I am sorry, Marielle. Truly. I know how much that child meant to you.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” I replied softly, keeping my gaze lowered to my plate. I moved a single pea around with my fork, pretending appetite existed. I had barely touched my food.

Then Arthur’s attention snapped toward Gabriel, and whatever softness had been there disappeared instantly. It was replaced by something sharper—cold, commanding anger.

“But what I fail to understand,” Arthur said in a low, dangerous tone, “is how this even happened. I was told you were at a company gathering. I was told chauffeurs were available. So why, in God’s name, was your secretary the one driving my granddaughter-in-law home while she was intoxicated?”

Across from me, Camille visibly shrank into herself. She wore a simple black dress tonight, modest and carefully chosen, like she was auditioning for forgiveness. “family,” they had called her. The word alone made my stomach twist.

“It was an accident, sir,” Camille said quietly, voice shaking. “I… I thought I was okay to drive. I just wanted to make sure Marielle got home safely.”

“Safely?” Arthur’s fist struck the table hard enough to rattle the cutlery. “You sent her to the hospital! You ended the life of my heir! And you call that safety?”

“Grandpa, please,” Gabriel cut in quickly, leaning forward as if trying to smooth the situation over. “Let’s not escalate this. Pointing fingers won’t change anything. Camille is already distraught. She’s been blaming herself nonstop. It was an accident. The roads were slippery.”

“The roads were fine!” Arthur shot back. “It was the driver who failed. Tell me, Gabriel—why didn’t you drive her yourself? Or hire someone competent?”

“I stayed behind with the investors,” Gabriel replied smoothly, too smoothly. “You know the merger couldn’t wait. I had no choice.”

“So instead,” Arthur said with open disgust, “you let your pregnant wife leave with a drunk woman?”

“I told them I would drive,” I said suddenly.

Silence fell like a dropped blade.

No one looked at me at first. I kept my eyes on my plate, my voice steady. “I asked for the keys. I said I was fine to drive. But Camille insisted. She said no one else touches her car.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpened. “Is that accurate?” he demanded.

Camille’s composure cracked immediately. “I… I don’t remember saying that,” she cried, shaking her head frantically. “I was just trying to help! I didn’t mean anything bad! I’m sorry—I’m really sorry!”

She broke into tears on cue, burying her face in her hands, shoulders trembling in a performance so polished it almost looked rehearsed.

Gabriel reacted instantly. He reached for her and patted her shoulder, protective. “See, Grandpa? She’s already falling apart. Marielle, please… don’t make this worse. She didn’t intend any harm.”

“She didn’t intend it,” Arthur repeated slowly, skepticism heavy in his voice. His eyes moved between them like he was weighing every lie. “Just make sure it never happens again. I want a grandson—with Marielle. No one else.”

The dinner ended shortly after, suffocating and unfinished. I stood up the moment it was socially acceptable and left the table, walking fast toward the foyer.

But I barely made it halfway when hurried footsteps followed behind me.

“Marielle! Wait up!” Camille’s voice rang out.

I stopped reluctantly.

“Please,” she said breathlessly when she reached me. “You have to forgive me. I can’t handle you hating me like this. We used to be close.”

“We were never close, Camille,” I replied evenly. “You were my husband’s best friend’s sister. That’s all.”

For a second, her expression tightened—something sharp and real flashing beneath the mask—then it disappeared again as quickly as it came. She reached out suddenly.

I stepped back. “Don’t touch me.”

As I turned to leave, she suddenly staggered backward with a sharp gasp and dropped to the floor, landing hard on her side.

“Ow!” she cried out dramatically.

“What is going on here?”

Gabriel came rushing from the dining room, his voice already tense. His eyes landed on Camille curled on the floor, then on me standing nearby.

“She pushed me!” Camille sobbed immediately, clutching her leg. “I was just apologizing and she shoved me!”

I stared at her, stunned. It was so blatant, so childish—and yet, somehow, perfectly effective.

Gabriel’s gaze snapped to me, anger already forming. “Are you serious right now, Marielle? You’re laying hands on her in my grandfather’s house?”

“I didn’t touch her,” I said calmly. “She threw herself down.”

“Oh, come on,” he scoffed. “Why would she do that? Look at her—she’s hurt.” He bent down and helped her up, his hand lingering at her waist a little too long before he straightened. “You’re not yourself. You’re letting grief turn you into someone cruel.”

I exhaled slowly. “I’m done with this, Gabriel.”

I stepped closer. “Choose. Right now. Me or her.”

He froze completely.

His eyes flicked between me and Camille, who was still clinging to his arm like she belonged there. His mouth opened, then closed again. For the first time, he looked cornered.

“Marielle… that’s ridiculous,” he finally said, voice uneven. “I can’t choose. You’re my wife, and she’s… she’s important too.”

“That’s an answer,” I said quietly.

I turned and walked out into the night air.

Outside, the cold hit my skin like a wake-up slap. I stopped on the porch and inhaled deeply, trying to steady myself, forcing back tears that refused to fall.

I wouldn’t cry for him. Not anymore.

“Marielle?”

A voice called from the darkness near the driveway—deep, familiar.

I looked up.

A black sedan sat parked nearby, and leaning against it was Martin—Camille’s older brother, Gabriel’s closest friend.

He looked different. Tired in a way I didn’t remember. His tie was loosened, a cigarette between his fingers, like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Martin,” I whispered.

He immediately dropped the cigarette and stepped forward. “I heard about the baby,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I don’t even know what to say… I’m really sorry.”

Just seeing him—someone who had once treated me like I mattered before everything turned rotten—broke something in me. A tear slipped out before I could stop it.

“It’s been… difficult,” I managed.

Martin didn’t hesitate. He pulled me into an embrace.

It wasn’t like Gabriel’s hugs—performative and empty. This one was firm, grounding. Real. I caught the faint scent of tobacco and cologne and let myself lean into it for a second longer than I should have.

“I’m sorry about Camille,” he murmured. “If I had been here, I never would’ve let her drive. She’s… unstable sometimes. I should’ve known better.”

We stood there quietly, two people carrying different kinds of grief.

Later that night, back inside the house, I sat in front of my vanity, slowly removing my earrings. The woman in the mirror looked drained—older, hollowed out, unfamiliar.

The bedroom door suddenly slammed open.

“What the hell was that?” Gabriel’s voice exploded into the room as he stepped in. “Out there—with Martin—outside my grandfather’s house?”

I turned slightly. “We were talking. He was comforting me. Something you clearly couldn’t bother to do.”

“Comforting you?” He let out a sharp laugh. “Is that what you call it? You were hugging him. I saw it. Don’t lie.”

He stormed over and grabbed the back of my chair. “What is this? Are you trying to get revenge on me? Is that it? Running to my best friend now?”

“Revenge?” I stood up abruptly, pushing his hand away. “He hugged me because I was crying, Gabriel. Because my husband was too busy protecting the woman who caused all of this.”

“Don’t twist this!” he shouted. “You’ve always had feelings for him, haven’t you? Is that why you’re suddenly so eager for divorce? So you can run straight to Martin?”

The irony was almost laughable. Almost.

I looked at him slowly, my voice dropping into something dangerously calm.

“So hugging someone while I’m grieving is cheating now?” I said. “Is that what you’re saying?”

I stepped closer, close enough that he had to meet my eyes.

“Then tell me, Gabriel… by your logic, are you admitting you’ve been cheating on me with Camille all along?”

Gabriel blinked, and for a split second the rage in his eyes wavered. Panic slipped in where certainty had been, and he instinctively stepped back as though the ground beneath him had shifted. His posture, once defensive and sharp, softened into something almost pitiful—something that looked a lot like fear dressed up as denial.

“What? No—absolutely not!” he blurted out, laughing awkwardly like the sound might erase what I had said. He dragged a hand through his hair, clearly unsettled. “Marielle, you’re misreading everything again. I’m not cheating on you. I’m just… protective, okay? Seeing you with Martin threw me off. I got jealous. That’s all. It’s because I love you.”

He reached for me then, hesitating for only a moment before pulling me into his arms. I didn’t move. I stayed stiff, unresponsive, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against me like a confession he didn’t realize he was making.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into my hair, his voice shifting into that familiar, gentle tone—the one he always used when he wanted things to go back to normal. “We’re both overwhelmed. I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I’m sorry, baby.”

Pulling back slightly, he brushed a tear I didn’t even notice I had shed. “Let’s just leave this behind us,” he said softly. “We should focus on what matters. We can plan something for the baby… a memorial. Something meaningful. And after that, when you’re ready, we can try again. We can still have the family we always dreamed of.”

I stared at him, almost in disbelief at how easily he could reshape reality with words. But I was exhausted in a way that went deeper than sleep could fix. My body felt heavy, my chest hollow. I didn’t have anything left to throw back at him.

So I nodded.

A small, fragile curve formed on my lips, like something dry cracking under pressure. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Alright, Gabriel.”

Relief washed over him instantly. His shoulders loosened as if someone had cut a string tied too tight. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered. “Rest now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Once he left, I locked the door behind him and slid down slowly until my back met the floor, my face buried in my arms.

Morning came too brightly, too clean, as if the world had no idea what it had done to me. I sat on the edge of the bed staring blankly when my phone vibrated against the sheets.

“It’s all arranged,” my mother’s voice came through the line—calm, precise, controlled. “Your papers are finalized. Visa’s approved. I had to pull a few favors, but it’s done. You’re booked on a flight to Zurich in three days.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Three days.

“Zurich?” I repeated softly.

“It’s private there. Safe. Remote. We still have that chalet—no one knows about it,” she explained. “Are you certain about this, Marielle? Because once you leave, you don’t come back.”

“I just need to get out,” I whispered. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Before she could answer, the door clicked open.

I ended the call too quickly, my body going still.

Gabriel walked in carrying a breakfast tray, placing it on the bedside table like nothing had changed. His tone was casual, but his eyes weren’t—they were sharp, watching.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked lightly. Then, his gaze narrowed slightly. “And what did you mean by ‘I’ll leave’?”

He stepped closer, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Are you planning to leave me, Marielle? Is that it? Are you doing something behind my back? I already told you—no divorce. We’re not—”

“No,” I interrupted softly, forcing ease into my tone. “I was just talking to a travel agent.”

“A travel agent?” he repeated, clearly unconvinced.

“Yes,” I continued, smoothing the moment over. “I was thinking… after everything, maybe we should take a break. A trip. Just us. Like you said last night.” I reached for his hand, squeezing it gently. “We could go somewhere far. Romantic. Paris… Italy… somewhere like that.”

The suspicion in his face dissolved almost instantly, replaced by relief so obvious it almost made me sick.

“Oh,” he exhaled, letting out a small laugh. “Thank God. You really scared me for a second there.” He shook his head, smiling again as he kissed my knuckles. “That’s a great idea. Of course. We’ll go anywhere you want. I’ll clear my schedule.”

“Really?” I asked, widening my eyes as if I believed him.

“Anything for you,” he said without hesitation.

For the next two days, I played my role flawlessly. The grieving wife learning how to breathe again. I talked about Italy like it was a dream we shared. I smiled at hotel options beside him. I let him hold my hand, let him believe we were still intact.

On my second night—the last before everything ended—he surprised me.

“Get ready,” Gabriel said as he entered the room, holding a small velvet box.

Inside was a diamond necklace that sparkled under the light.

“I got us tickets,” he added, almost proud. “Phantom of the Opera. I know it’s your favorite.”

I looked at the necklace for a long moment before taking it. It was breathtaking. And yet it felt like something meant to decorate a cage.

“Thank you,” I said quietly as he fastened it around my neck.

The theater was exactly as I remembered it—grand, glowing, full of music that once made me believe in forever. We sat in a private box as the chandelier rose and the orchestra swelled.

For a brief moment, I let myself drift. Back to the first time we watched this show together. Back when I had cried during the finale, and he had held my hand like I mattered.

I turned to him in the dim light. His face was lit by the stage glow, focused, almost perfect.

Do you love me? I had once asked.

Of course I do, he had said.

A lie I had mistaken for truth.

Halfway through the second act, his phone buzzed.

He ignored it at first.

Then again.

And again.

His brows pulled together as he finally pulled it out. The screen lit his face. I saw the name before he even reacted—Camille.

His expression changed immediately. He read the message, jaw tightening, then glanced at me before typing back quickly. Another buzz followed almost instantly.

He sighed, annoyed now, and leaned toward me with a practiced look of regret.

“Marielle,” he said under his breath. “I need to go.”

I blinked slowly. “Now?”

“It’s urgent,” he replied quickly. “Something came up with the merger. Investors are panicking. I have to handle it.”

“Can’t it wait?” I asked, watching him carefully. “You promised this night was ours.”

“I know,” he said, already standing and reaching for his coat. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. Stay and finish the show. I’ll have the driver pick you up later.”

He pressed a quick kiss to my cheek—barely there, already gone in his mind—and left without another glance.

The velvet curtain swung shut behind him.

I turned back toward the stage. The Phantom sang about darkness and longing, filling the space he had left behind.

I sat alone in the private box, the diamond necklace suddenly heavy against my skin. The empty seat beside me felt louder than the music.

Still, I didn’t cry.

I was past that.

Instead, I opened my bag and pulled out my phone.

One last call before I disappeared.

I dialed the lawyer my mother had given me.

A rough voice answered. “Yeah?”

“This is Marielle,” I said clearly, steady despite everything breaking around me. “I’m ready. Prepare the divorce papers. Send them tomorrow.”