On the night of the Fourth of July, while fireworks lit up the sky, Margaux Haywood sent her ex-boyfriend's father ten cases of Romanée-Conti and another ten of top-shelf bourbon.

A client sent over two boxes of assorted pastries and a fruit basket. Without a note, it read like leftovers presented for the sake of formality.

That wasn't anything new.

It reminded me of our wedding day.

Back then, Margaux only agreed to let me marry into her family under one condition that we skipped the rings. There was no proposal, ceremony, or vows, and just a signature on a piece of paper.

But for her ex, Archie Branson?

Margaux went all out. She set up a line of deluxe villas and acquired a custom engagement ring pair at the Queen's Auction.

The rings remain stored in a secure, private vault.

I don't even know the password, and I'm not allowed near it.

I stared at the rough, cheap packaging of the so-called "gifts" I brought, and a cold laugh slipped out before I could stop it.

"Margaux," I said, voice even, "let's get a divorce."

She didn't even react, and her expression didn't change.

Instead, she chuckled, like I'd said something mildly amusing.

"All this fuss over a couple of bottles of wine?" she said, like I was the one being ridiculous. Don't you think you're overreacting, Troy?"

Then, to justify everything, she added, "Archie's not around right now. What's wrong with me showing some respect to his father on his behalf?"

As if that made it okay.

Before I could answer, she grabbed two cases of Romanée-Conti and shoved them into my arms like she tossed me a bone.

"There. Happy now?" Margaux asked. "So, still divorcing?"

I didn't hesitate. I looked her right in the eye.

"Yeah," I said. "Still divorcing."

——

She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Fine. Then go home and talk it over with your older brother, Gerard. If you can get his approval, we'll talk."

Afterward, Margaux gestured to her bodyguards and walked away without a word, her heels tapping on the marble as they carried off the remaining wine.

She didn't even look back.

I stared at the two cases of wine in my hands.

Then, they turned around and dumped them straight into the trash.

Without a second thought, I pulled out my phone and called the one man who could make this official.

"Atty. Irving," I said, "draft a divorce agreement. I'll walk away with nothing."

There was a long pause on the other end.

"Sir, are you sure?" he asked carefully. "You really want to walk away with nothing? Has Sir Gerard approved this? Maybe you should at least negotiate for your own rights."

At his words, a bitter smile tugged at my lips.

With that, I couldn't help but think, 'Rights? Did I ever really have any?'

When I was dragged back into the Johnson family, my father and brother treated me like a spare part—a tool—something useful, not someone valuable.

And Margaux?

She made her position clear the night before our wedding.

I earned eight grand a month. That was supposed to cover all the household expenses.

Her company's dividends? They were labeled as premarital assets. Completely off-limits.

The villa, Starlight Heights, where we lived?

Before I ever set foot inside, she'd already had it notarized under her name.

To prove I wasn't in it for her money, I signed everything she wanted—every document and every condition.

But when I saw what she prepared as a bride price for her ex?

That's when the delusion shattered.

That's when I finally realized I wasn't her husband.

I was just a stand-in—a seat filler.

A puppet she used to make her ex jealous, to lash out at the one who left her.

And it's been six years.

Six long years of humiliation and silence.

And suddenly, I just couldn't do it anymore. I opened a blank document and started drafting the divorce agreement myself.

As I typed, a news notification popped up.

Breaking News: [Metropolis's richest woman was spotted at the airport with a mystery man suspected of being her new flame.]

I tapped it open, and there she was.

Margaux Haywood.

Smiling. Bright and wide. The kind of smile I hadn't seen in years.

And standing next to her was a man I knew all too well.

Archie Branson.

They stood right next to each other, as if they hadn't split up. Her arm linked through his, and both wore matching golden rose pins, embroidered in gold thread. The kind of thing you can't buy unless someone wants you to be seen.

My chest tightened like a fist wrapped around my lungs. My throat dried up. My whole body went cold.

Then the trunk of their car popped open.

Row after row, luxury gifts were loaded in.

Romanée-Conti. George T. Stagg. Dozens of boxes.

I wasn't allowed to give the same ones to anyone.

Later that day, Archie posted on his Moments.

They stood in front of the car, arms around each other. Her hand was resting on his shoulder. Fingers bare. No ring.

Caption:

[After everything, you were always the one.]

Margaux liked the post and then commented:

[And I will always be your way home.]

But they weren't done.

Archie posted ten more updates before the day was over.

They visited the Branson family's ancestral home. Margaux sat at the head of the table like she belonged there. Like she'd always been the Branson family's daughter-in-law.

Archie sat beside her, doting and affectionate.

They toasted the elders.

She followed him to the family shrine, knelt, and bowed her head to the floor.

Later, they went boating on Westlake.

The sun lit up her face, soft and golden. And her smile—God, that smile was something else.

She never smiled like that with me.

Whenever we went out, her eyes were glued to her laptop. Her face was always blank, distant.

I used to tell her stories—silly things I saw on the street, hoping to make her laugh, but Margaux never looked up or showed any interest.

She would only frown at me and call me childish.

Every holiday, I arrived alone at the Davidson gatherings. I was consistently the outsider and the easy target. Her brothers and sisters no longer even tried to hide their jabs.

To them, I wasn't a husband. I was a punchline. A stand-in. Something to sneer at once the drinks kicked in.

The memory pressed on my chest like a vice. My eyes burned, but I forced the sting back and swallowed the knot in my throat. I kept my head down and typed the divorce agreement on my phone.

Sometimes you've got to hit the wall head-on before it finally cracks your skull that you're not made of stone.

Everyone bleeds once before they figure out when it's time to walk away.

When I finished drafting it, I emailed the document to Margaux. Then, I made a call.

...

By that afternoon, I sat across from my best friend, Kenneth Cuthbert, at a bar downtown. His usual carefree vibe was nowhere to be seen. His expression was flat, unreadable. He looked at me like I was walking straight into a fire with my eyes open.

"You really thought this through?" Kenneth asked, his voice low. "Eighteen years, Troy. You've loved her that long. Are you really ready to let Margaux go?"

Kenneth was more than a friend. As my classmate, he watched the whole story unfold—me making a fool of myself over Margaux, trailing her like a shadow, then pretending I didn’t care while she chased that reckless fling with Archie.

Even after Archie left her, I kept holding on. He saw me at my lowest: holding Margaux when she broke, when she drowned herself in liquor, when she spiraled into depression, and when she attempted, more than once, to end her life.

Every time that happened, I stayed.

I was the one who wrapped her up in my arms and whispered, "I'm here, Margaux. I'll always be here. I won't leave you."

As I was reminded of that, I didn't answer Kenneth immediately.

But my voice came out calm, even when I finally said, "She went to the airport to pick him up."

A heavy silence fell between us.

Kenneth went quiet. He didn't have to ask who I meant.

Archie.

That name alone was enough to twist something inside me. The guy wasn't just a chapter from the past. He was the wound that never healed. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to throb every damn day.

Even after six years of marriage, Margaux never really let him go.

I still remember the day I accidentally opened a hidden folder on her phone and found over a thousand photos of Archie saved on her phone. Some were candid, some selfies, but all of them were worshipful.

When she found out, she flew into a rage, lashing at me, "Troy, do you have any manners? Who gave you permission to look through my things?"

After that, she didn't speak to me for a week.

She wouldn't touch the food I cooked and refused to wear anything I'd washed. Much worse, she moved into the guest room and wrapped herself up like I was a virus.

Eventually, I gave in and apologized.

I promised her that I wouldn't go through her stuff again.

She "forgave" me—with a cold nod as acceptance. No words were spoken, and we moved on, pretending we were okay.

Now, across the table, Kenneth looked at me with worry.

Finally, he replied cautiously but firmly, "Troy, this divorce is not just about how you feel. It will hit both of your families—your dad and Gerard. You think they'll just let you walk away?"

Then, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You know what I mean. Don't charge ahead and then crawl back later. Margaux already doesn't respect you. Don't give her another reason to look down on you."

I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes.

"I've eaten at the Davidson family table for twelve years. I helped them claw their way from second-rate nouveau riche into high society. Built their reputation from nothing. Secured connections in every direction. I think I've done enough."

Outside the window, thunder rolled through the sky. A flash of lightning lit up the street, followed by a sudden downpour.

A couple burst through the doors, laughing as they shook off the rain. The woman clung to the man's arm, fussing as she wiped down his jacket. He looked down at her and smiled, flicking the water from his hair.

Then our eyes met.

I went still.

So did he.

Archie adjusted his sleeves, called a server over, grabbed a glass of wine, and strolled to our table.

"Troy," he said with that easy, practiced smile.

"Long time no see." He raised his glass and tossed it back in one gulp. "Thanks for taking care of Margaux these past six years. I heard she got so depressed after I left the country that she nearly committed suicide. Silly girl."

My jaw clenched. 'He was thanking me for looking after my wife? This fucking asshole!'

"Let me remind you, Branson. Margaux is my wife," I said, voice low and steady. "Taking care of her is my responsibility. Don't act like you did me a favor."

Archie gave a lazy chuckle, smug and irritating. "Six years, and the little lapdog finally knows how to bark, huh? You really think you're Margaux's husband? Come on, man. Margaux only picked you because I wasn't around. You were just available. A warm body."

He leaned in, just slightly. His tone dropped as he added, "I didn't say anything back then because, well... at least you were cleaner than hiring a random escort."

Archie then straightened, smugness written all over his face.

"Oh, and about that divorce? I'm all for it. But let me make something clear. Don't even think about sticking around Margaux afterward. Just because you slept with her a few times doesn't mean you get to keep hovering."

He paused for effect.

"I don't like sand in my eyes."

Hearing his words, my hand moved before my brain could stop it.

The sound of the punch cracked through the bar like a gunshot.

I lowered my hand and didn't give Archie a single fuck.

"Archie," I said evenly, my voice low but sharp, "as long as I'm still her husband, you're just the shameless side piece. So tell me, what gives you the right to insult me?"

Right on cue, Margaux rushed over from the counter, probably having just picked up her order. She wrapped her arms protectively around him, her hands running over his face like she needed to check if I'd broken him.

Then she looked up at me, and her expression turned ice-cold.

"You hit him?" she asked, her voice tight.

"I did—"

A sharper, louder crack split the air of the hall.

Margaux's hand came down harder than his.

"That slap's a warning, Troy," she said, her tone steady, but every word sliced like a blade. "He's mine. Don't you dare touch him!"

She was trembling, but it wasn't fear that caused it. It was fury barely kept under control.

"Troy, seriously? You followed us here just to throw a tantrum like some jealous little boy?"

I wiped at the tear that had crept out of the corner of my eye and stood straighter.

My chin lifted, and I held my ground.

"Margaux, I wasn't raised to walk around town parading a side piece while I was still married," I said. "If he means that much to you, then sign the damn divorce papers. Or are you planning to keep playing the mistress for the rest of your life?"

She thought I was threatening her.

A cold laugh curled from her lips. "Divorce? You think you'd survive out there without me? Who the hell would want you?"

Then, she stepped in closer, her words coming fast, laced with pride and venom.

"Six years ago, my dad handed me off to you like some trade deal. For the rest of your life—dead or alive—you belong to me."

I let out a quiet yet bitter laugh.

"Margaux, I'm not some ghost leftover from the Davidsons," I said. "And I damn sure don't belong to the Haywood family either. Even if I drop dead, I'll only ever be my own ghost."

Seeing the shimmer of tears in my eyes, her tone softened for a moment.

"Alright, that's enough. Come home. I'll explain everything."

I shook my head.

"There's nothing left to explain," I said firmly. "I meant what I said. I really want the divorce."

I pulled the paperwork from my bag and placed it on the table right in front of her.

Margaux barely glanced at it before irritation colored her expression.

"All this drama because I didn't bring enough gifts for your dad?" she asked. "Fine. I'll give you an Amex black card. Buy whatever you want. Will that make you happy now?"

Her words almost made me laugh.

'That was her takeaway?' I thought.

So that's what she thought I cared about. Money. A few bottles of wine. A fancy credit card.

If I had wanted wealth, I would have fought for it back then. But I didn't. I gave it all up just to be with her and to be the best husband I could be.

She never understood.

She never really saw what she meant to me.

I loved her for eighteen years.

I remembered it all like it had just happened. The day I was brought back to the Davidsons as the unwanted bastard child. The day Gerard, my older brother, dragged me out to the pool and threw me in like garbage. I was barely conscious, gasping for air.

And she jumped in after me.

She pulled me out and stood there, soaked and shaking, facing down Gerard.

"He's your brother, Gerard," she said, her voice soft but firm. "A real man should show kindness. Don't take out your anger on him."

That moment lit something inside me.

Margaux became my light in the middle of all that darkness.

Because of her, my years with the Davidsons had at least a sliver of dignity.

So I gave her everything I had—my youth, loyalty, and heart.

I folded a thousand paper cranes for her so she could give them to Archie.

I ran her errands by delivering Archie's medicine and breakfast.

I did everything for her just to make her happy.

I stood in the shadows like a coward, guarding my feelings as if they were shameful.

I knew where her heart was. She never once said she liked me.

But I don't regret a damn thing.

She was ready to live and die for Archie. And I was the one who stayed.

I was the one who held her when she was breaking apart, and I was the one who promised, "I'll never leave you. No matter what."

Then one day, she showed up at my door with a withered rose and that hollow look in her eyes.

"Marry me," she said.

I didn't even blink. I tossed aside my pride, my last shred of self-worth, everything.

Because I loved her.

But now?

"No need, Margaux," I said, my voice low. "I'm really tired."

I turned toward the door, ready to leave it all behind.

Just then, the bar's front doors slammed open, and someone stormed in. A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me backward with force.

"Troy, you feeling gutsy now?" Gerard's voice rang out as he shoved me hard toward her. "Talking divorce with Margaux like you actually have a say?"