My Life After My Contract Marriage Ended

After three years of contractual marriage with Christopher Chandler, we still treated each other like polite strangers in bed.

No matter where he was or what he was doing, he would drop everything the moment Maurice Cooper—his first love—needed him.

To please her, he allowed her to come and go as she pleased, humiliating me repeatedly under our shared roof.

When Maurice hired online trolls to smear my name and dragged me into a media storm, Christopher stepped forward—not for me, but for her.

“Maurice is too innocent to understand these dirty tricks,” he said coldly. “Don’t just bite anyone you catch.”

And when the attacks escalated and he had to choose, he didn’t even flinch—he sacrificed my future, my dignity, and my career to protect Maurice’s reputation… which no one even cared about.

I left in the firelight, wounds invisible but aching.

When we met again—

Top actor Cliff Compton stood firmly in front of me, shielding me.

Christopher knelt at my feet, eyes red, voice breaking. “I can get plastic surgery. I’ll look exactly like him! Let me be your substitute, your shadow. Please, just one more chance… Shelley, what about our three years?”

I looked at him, emotionless.

“The world may not know, but surely you haven’t forgotten, Christopher. We were just a contract. That’s all. It expired—and we didn’t renew it.”

—

“Did you buy the bar and give it to him? What did he say?” I asked over the phone, heart beating faster.

When I heard the answer I was hoping for, I breathed out. “Thanks, Marie. I’ll be there soon.”

I hung up, turned half a step—and froze.

Christopher stood behind me in a bathrobe. My smile vanished.

“You’re going out?” he asked, nodding toward the bed. “Then what about tonight?”

He pointed at the mattress. His bare chest rose and fell slowly.

It was our designated night—once a week, to fulfill the terms of our agreement.

I didn’t answer. I turned my back to him, took off my robe, and slipped under the quilt.

Three years, and we still couldn’t face each other’s nakedness.

I closed my eyes, expecting the usual forehead kiss. But tonight was different. He kissed my lips directly—hungry, urgent.

His cold fingers brushed my skin, and I flinched. My eyes flew open.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped, eyes dark with lust. “Push me if it hurts. We can stop anytime.”

I shut my eyes again.

He entered me, like always—wordless, emotionless, mechanical. The same position. The same rhythm. The same exhausting finish.

Only the bed creaked and shook, his restrained breathing breaking the silence.

I gripped the sheets and stared at the moonlight outside the window, my gaze hollow.

A comment I’d seen from a black fan popped into my mind:

“Christopher? Just hearing the name, you know he’s bad news.”

Would he torment that commenter the way he’s tormented me?

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

He paused, startled, about to say something—when the phone on his pillow rang.

He stopped mid-motion, but instead of frustration, his face softened. He answered immediately.

I didn’t have to look. I knew that ringtone.

Maurice’s voice trembled through the speaker: “Chris, it’s thundering... I’m scared… Chris…”

To the public, Christopher and I were the perfect couple—a fairytale romance everyone envied.

But the truth?

He had always belonged to Maurice.

This marriage was just a contract to shield her from the chaos of fan wars.

I didn’t mind back then. My heart had died with Ismael in that plane crash three years ago.

Marriage with Christopher offered safety, opportunities, and protection from the industry’s hidden rules.

We agreed on boundaries—fulfill our roles, live separate lives, and part ways after three years.

He pulled out after the call, still gentle. “Sorry… it’s Maurice…”

Even now, he apologized for leaving me in the middle of this.

“It’s fine,” I said with a smile. “I didn’t have the strength for two hours anyway.”

I always made excuses for him.

Anniversaries. Birthdays. Set injuries. Even when I was bleeding and reporters were crowding around, he would find a way to be at Maurice’s side.

And I always covered for him.

But tonight felt different.

He glanced at his still-erect body, grabbed his robe, and bolted toward the bathroom.

This time, I reached out.

“There’s a document you need to sign. Just one minute.” I pulled a folder and pen from the nightstand, already prepared.

He looked at the clock. “Whatever it is, just have my agent look it over.”

“It's simple,” I said. “Just flip to the last page.”

Without reading a word, he scribbled his name and ran into the bathroom.

As the door shut behind him, I sat on the edge of the bed, gazing down at the signed divorce agreement in my hands.