In my previous life, Sofia and Lewis were inseparable, their love story abruptly halted by the iron grip of her parents. Our paths intersected through the choreographed dance of arranged marriage. After just two brief meetings, Sofia acquiesced to my proposal.

Yet, her consent came with a caveat. "You're a good man, but there's one thing," she said bluntly. "You must give me a dowry of forty thousand dollars."

A surge of hope and anticipation filled me as I envisioned a future with Sofia. I genuinely liked her and wanted to build a life together.

Sofia had been tightly controlled by her parents from childhood, with no freedom to speak of. To liberate her, even in a small way, seemed like a noble gesture. With a heart full of optimism, I drained my savings, each withdrawn bill a silent pledge to our future.

Little did I know, those funds were a lifeline for Lewis – a desperate gamble on his survival. Our marriage became a stage for a carefully crafted deception. Sofia's frequent absences were explained away as visits to an ailing friend, a narrative she wove with practiced ease.

Driven by naive compassion, I became a culinary servant, my kitchen transforming into a sanctuary of care. Each meal was prepared with meticulous attention, a silent prayer for her friend's recovery.

At first, Sofia's reactions were a blend of surprise and gratitude. But over time, her gratitude shifted into expectation. Her requests became more demanding, turning simple meal preparations into elaborate performances.

Eventually, her absences grew more frequent, extending into full nights away. Anxiety gnawed at my heart as the hours stretched into days. The ticking clock became a relentless tormentor, each passing minute a pang of fear.

Desperate to know her whereabouts, I called and texted, but Sofia never replied. Then came the night when fate revealed the harsh truth with cruel irony.

Unable to bear the pain of a stomach ulcer any longer, I went to the hospital alone. The sterile, white corridors of the hospital contrasted sharply with the warmth and comfort of my home. As I navigated the labyrinthine halls, I stumbled upon Sofia in a ward.

There she was, alongside Lewis, an island of intimacy in a sea of sterile white. Sofia was feeding him, her smile bright and radiant. Her laughter, a melody I had never heard before, was a dagger to my heart.

The woman who had shared my bed and bore my name was radiating a joy that was worlds a part from our lifeless marriage. It was then that I truly saw her smile for the first time.

I understood now that her so-called "friend" was Lewis, her first love. I stood at the door, my presence unnoticed until Lewis caught sight of me.

Sofia turned her head and met my gaze. Panic and discomfort flashed across her face. "Rowan, why are you here?"

She didn't ask if I was feeling unwell but instead quickly became angry, accusing me of following her.

She hadn't crossed the line of physical infidelity, but the emotional betrayal was a wound that festered beneath the surface. Despite the pain, I had no intention of divorcing her immediately. I was determined to salvage our marriage and weather this storm, believing that a chance at reconciliation was still possible.

Over the course of a week, I showered her with elaborate apologies – flowers, gifts and heartfelt gestures. Gradually, her icy demeanor began to thaw and a fragile truce was established between us.

Yet, the shadow of Lewis loomed large in our lives. Casual mentions of his condition became a recurring theme in our conversations, her tone always imbued with a righteous indignation. It was as if my discomfort was a reflection of my own cruelty.

I found myself trapped in a labyrinth of my own making, a prisoner of my vows and societal expectations. The weight of their approval was a heavy burden, but I continued to play the role of the perfect husband. I cooked, cleaned and provided, all while my heart withered within me.

Five years of unwavering devotion had yielded nothing but heartache. The realization was a bitter pill to swallow. If her heart truly belonged to another, I would not be the one to stand in her way.

With newfound resolve, I booked a ticket to Bali – a dream deferred and a promise to myself. I had always wanted to visit, originally planning it as our honeymoon destination. But this time, it was a declaration of independence, a refusal to be defined by a love that was one-sided.

When Sofia learned of my plans, her reaction was swift and furious. "I have no mood for a honeymoon. Lewis is still undergoing chemotherapy and needs care."

Her anger was genuine and once again, Lewis became the shield – a fragile weapon used against me. Despite her protests, the decision to divorce was already made.

My phone rang and it was Sofia calling. "Rowan, what kind of tantrum are you throwing? Lewis is now in a critical phase of his chemotherapy. I don't have time to placate you. My parents trust you and explaining this to them won't cost you anything."

I listened to her words in silence, absorbing the finality in her tone. After a moment, I spoke calmly. "Sofia, I've already printed the divorce agreement. If you have time, come back so we can sign it."

As soon as I finished speaking, a heavy silence enveloped the other end of the line. A sense of finality washed over me as I hung up the phone.

Approximately an hour later, the familiar creak of the front door shattered the quietude of my home. Sofia stood in the doorway, her face etched with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"Rowan, what is wrong with you today?" Her voice was sharp, carrying an undercurrent of accusation. "You've mentioned divorce twice. This isn't like you at all."

Indeed, it wasn't. For years, I had been the epitome of the perfect husband. I had shielded her from her parents, covered up her indiscretions, even tolerated the intrusions of her former lover. But her treatment of me had been far from reciprocal.

I recalled the countless hours spent in the kitchen, slaving over a hot stove to appease Lewis' picky palate. Her subsequent criticism cut deeply, wounding my heart. I endured it all, my love for her acting as a shield against her words.

But the final blow came on the day of my surgery. Sofia brought Lewis home and had an affair. I even saw used condoms on the floor near the couch. Five years of a loveless marriage, punctuated by her claims of asexuality, were a cruel mockery of the vows we had exchanged. The discovery of their infidelity was the final nail in the coffin.

"In the past, I've been a fool," I began quietly, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I've pretended for too long. It's time for the truth."

Sofia stood motionless, her expression a mask of shock and disbelief. I continued, a bitter smile curving my lips. "Don't you and Lewis yearn to be together openly? This divorce will grant you that freedom. Consider it a belated wedding gift."

As I handed her the divorce agreement, I felt a strange sense of liberation. Exhaustion washed over me. I had spent countless nights waiting for her return, a prisoner in my own home. With a heavy heart, I retreated to the bedroom. "Just sign it," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Everything is yours."

Sofia's expression wavered between anger and panic. "Rowan, you can't be serious. After everything we've been through, you just want to throw it all away?"